PENROD 


IN -MHO1 

^K  J 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Gift  of 

Donald  R.  Fleming 

In  memory  of 
Kathi  Fleming,  UC  '39 


PENROD    AND    SAM 


I 


Unit"" 


"Well,  sir,  I  guess  we  got  him  filled  up  at  last!' 
said  Penrod. 


PENROD 
AND  SAM 

by 

Booth  Tarkington 


Illustrated  by  Gordon  Grant 

JUNIOR  DELUXE  EDITIONS 

Garden  City,  New  York 


Copyright,  MCMXV1,  by 

DOUBLEDAY    &    COMPANY,    INC. 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


Copyright,  MCMXIV,  MCMXV,  MCMXVI,  by 
INTERNATIONAL  MAGAZINES  Co.  (COSMOPOLITAN  MAGAZINE) 


TO  SUSANAH 


CONTENTS 


PENROD  AND  SAM 

PAGE 

Penrod  and  Sam 1 

The  Bonded  Prisoner 12 

The  In-Or-In     ...........  21 

Georgie  Becomes  a  Member 31 

Whitey .      .      .      ..      .      .      .  45 

Salvage  .       .      . .      .      .  50 

Reward  of  Merit      .      .      .      ....      .      .      .  58 

Conscience 69 

The  Tonic 77 

Gipsy 86 

Concerning  Trousers 92 

Camera  Work  in  the  Jungle 101 

A  Model  Letter  to  a  Friend 110 

Wednesday  Madness 121 

Penrod's  Busy  Day                            131 

On  Account  of  the  Weather 137 

Creative  Art 146 

The  Departing  Guest 154 

The  Party 159 

The  Heart  of  Marjorie  Jones 173 


PENROD    AND    SAM 


PENROD   AND   SAM 

DURING  the  daylight  hours  of  several  autumn 
Saturdays  there  had  been  severe  outbreaks  of 
cavalry  in  the  Schofield  neighbourhood.  The  sabres 
were  of  wood;  the  steeds  were  imaginary,  and  both  were 
employed  in  a  game  called  "bonded  pris'ner"  by  its  in- 
ventors. Masters  Penrod  Schofield  and  Samuel  Williams. 
The  pastime  was  not  intricate.  When  two  enemies  met,  they 
fenced  spectacularly  until  the  person  of  one  or  the  other 
was  touched  by  the  opposing  weapon ;  then,  when  the  ensu- 
ing claims  of  foul  play  had  been  disallowed  and  the  subse- 
quent argument  settled,  the  combatant  touched  was 
considered  to  be  a  prisoner  until  such  time  as  he  might 
be  touched  by  the  hilt  of  a  sword  belonging  to  one  of  his 


own  party,  which  effected  his  release  and  restored  to  him 
the  full  enjoyment  of  hostile  activity.  Pending  such  rescue, 
however,  he  was  obliged  to  accompany  the  forces  of  his 
captor  whithersoever  their  strategical  necessities  led  them, 
which  included  many  strange  places.  For  the  game  was 
exciting,  and,  at  its  highest  pitch,  would  sweep  out  of  an 
alley  into  a  stable,  out  of  that  stable  and  into  a  yard,  out 
of  that  yard  and  into  a  house,  and  through  that  house  with 
the  sound  (and  effect  upon  furniture)  of  trampling  herds. 
In  fact,  this  very  similarity  must  have  been  in  the  mind 
of  the  distressed  coloured  woman  in  Mrs.  Williams's 
kitchen,  when  she  declared  that  she  might  "jes'  as  well  try 
to  cook  right  spang  in  the  middle  o'  the  stock-yards." 

All  up  and  down  the  neighbourhood  the  campaigns  were 
waged,  accompanied  by  the  martial  clashing  of  wood  upon 
wood  and  by  many  clamorous  arguments. 

"You're  a  pris'ner,  Roddy  Bitts!" 

"I  am  not!" 

"You  are,  too!  I  touched  you." 

"Where,  I'd  like  to  know!" 

"On  the  sleeve." 

"You  did  not!  I  never  felt  it.  I  guess  I'd  'a'  felt  it, 
wouldn't  I?" 

"What  if  you  didn't?  I  touched  you,  and  you're  bonded. 
I  leave  it  to  Sam  Williams." 

"Yah!  Course  you  would!  He's  on  your  side!  /  leave  it 
to  Herman." 

"No,  you  won't!  If  you  can't  show  any  sense  about  it, 
we'll  do  it  over,  and  I  guess  you'll  see  whether  you  feel  it 
or  not!  There!  Now,  I  guess  you " 

"Aw,  squash!" 

Strangely  enough,  the  undoubted  champion  proved  to 
be  the  youngest  and  darkest  of  all  the  combatants.  Verman 
was  valiant  beyond  all  others,  and,  in  spite  of  every  handi- 
cap, he  became  at  once  the  chief  support  of  his  own  party 
and  the  despair  of  the  opposition. 

On  the  third  Saturday  this  opposition  had  been  worn 


down  by  the  successive  captures  of  Maurice  Levy  and 
Georgie  Bassett  until  it  consisted  of  only  Sam  Williams  and 
Penrod.  Hence,  it  behooved  these  two  to  be  wary,  lest  they 
be  wiped  out  altogether;  and  Sam  was  dismayed  indeed, 
upon  cautiously  scouting  round  a  corner  of  his  own  stable,  to 
find  himself  face  to  face  with  the  valorous  and  skilful  Ver- 
man,  who  was  acting  as  an  outpost,  or  picket,  of  the  enemy. 

Verman  immediately  fell  upon  Sam,  horse  and  foot,  and 
Sam  would  have  fled  but  dared  not,  for  fear  he  might  be 
touched  from  the  rear.  Therefore,  he  defended  himself  as 
best  he  could,  and  there  followed  a  lusty  whacking,  in  the 
course  of  which  Verman's  hat,  a  relic  and  too  large,  fell 
from  his  head,  touching  Sam's  weapon  in  falling. 

"There  1"  panted  Sam,  desisting  immediately.  "That 
counts!  You're  bonded,  Verman." 

"Aim  meewer!"  Verman  protested. 

Interpreting  this  as  "Ain't  neither",  Sam  invented  a  law 
to  suit  the  occasion.  "Yes,  you  are;  that's  the  rule,  Ver- 
man. I  touched  your  hat  with  my  sword,  and  your  hat's 
just  the  same  as  you." 

"Imm  mop!"  Verman  insisted. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  Sam,  already  warmly  convinced  (by  his 
own  statement)  that  he  was  in  the  right.  "Listen  here!  If 
I  hit  you  on  the  shoe,  it  would  be  the  same  as  hitting  you, 
wouldn't  it?  I  guess  it'd  count  if  I  hit  you  on  the  shoe, 
wouldn't  it?  Well,  a  hat's  just  the  same  as  shoes.  Honest, 
that's  the  rule,  Verman,  and  you're  a  pris'ner." 

Now,  in  the  arguing  part  of  the  game,  Verman's  impedi- 
ment cooperated  with  a  native  amiability  to  render  him 
far  less  effective  than  in  the  actual  combat.  He  chuckled, 
and  ceded  the  point. 

"Aw  wi,"  he  said,  and  cheerfully  followed  his  captor  to 
a  hidden  place  among  some  bushes  in  the  front  yard,  where 
Penrod  lurked. 

"Looky  what  I  got!"  Sam  said  importantly,  pushing 
his  captive  into  this  retreat.  "Now,  I  guess  you  won't  say 
I'm  not  so  much  use  any  more!  Squat  down,  Verman,  so's 

3 


they  can't  see  you  if  they're  huntin'  for  us.  That's  one  o' 
the  rules — honest.  You  got  to  squat  when  we  tell  you  to." 

Verman  was  agreeable.  He  squatted,  and  then  began  to 
laugh  uproariously. 

"Stop  that  noise!"  Penrod  commanded.  "You  want  to 
bekray  us?  What  you  laughin'  at?" 

"Ep  mack  im  mimmup,"  Verman  giggled. 

"What's  he  mean?"  Sam  asked. 

Penrod  was  more  familiar  with  Verman's  utterance,  and 
he  interpreted. 

"He  says  they'll  get  him  back  in  a  minute." 

"No,  they  won't.  I'd  just  like  to  see " 

"Yes,  they  will,  too,"  Penrod  said.  "They'll  get  him  back 
for  the  main  and  simple  reason  we  can't  stay  here  all  day, 
can  we?  And  they'd  find  us  anyhow,  if  we  tried  to.  There's 
so  many  of  'em  against  just  us  two,  they  can  run  in  and 
touch  him  soon  as  they  get  up  to  us — and  then  he'll  be 
after  us  again  and " 

"Listen  here !"  Sam  interrupted.  "Why  can't  we  put  some 
real  bonds  on  him?  We  could  put  bonds  on  his  wrists  and 
around  his  legs — we  could  put  'em  all  over  him,  easy  as 
nothin'.  Then  we  could  gag  him " 

"No,  we  can't,"  said  Penrod.  "We  can't,  for  the  main  and 
simple  reason  we  haven't  got  any  rope  or  anything  to  make 
the  bonds  with,  have  we?  I  wish  we  had  some  o'  that  stuff 
they  give  sick  people.  Then,  I  bet  they  wouldn't  get  him 
back  so  soon!" 

"Sick  people?"  Sam  repeated,  not  comprehending. 

"It  makes  'em  go  to  sleep,  no  matter  what  you  do  to 
'em,"  Penrod  explained.  "That's  the  main  and  simple  reason 
they  can't  wake  up,  and  you  can  cut  off  their  ole  legs — or 
their  arms,  or  anything  you  want  to." 

"Hoy !"  exclaimed  Verman,  in  a  serious  tone.  His  laughter 
ceased  instantly,  and  he  began  to  utter  a  protest  sufficiently 
intelligible. 

"You  needn't  worry,"  Penrod  said  gloomily.  "We  haven't 
got  any  o'  that  stuff;  so  we  can't  do  it." 


"Well,  we  got  to  do  sumpthing,"  Sam  said. 

His  comrade  agreed,  and  there  was  a  thoughtful  silence; 
but  presently  Penrod's  countenance  brightened. 

"I  know!"  he  exclaimed.  "7  know  what  we'll  do  with  him. 
Why,  I  thought  of  it  just  as  easy!  I  can  most  always  think 
of  things  like  that,  for  the  main  and  simple  reason — well, 
I  thought  of  it  just  as  soon " 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  Sam  demanded  crossly.  Penrod's 
reiteration  of  his  new-found  phrase,  "for  the  main  and 
simple  reason",  had  been  growing  more  and  more  irksome 
to  his  friend  all  day,  though  Sam  was  not  definitely  aware 
that  the  phrase  was  the  cause  of  his  annoyance.  "What 
are  we  goin'  to  do  with  him,  you  know  so  much?" 

Penrod  rose  and  peered  over  the  tops  of  the  bushes,  shad- 
ing his  eyes  with  his  hand,  a  gesture  that  was  unnecessary 
but  had  a  good  appearance.  He  looked  all  round  about  him 
in  this  manner,  finally  vouchsafing  a  report  to  the  impatient 
Sam. 

"No  enemies  in  sight — just  for  the  main  and  simple 
reason  I  expect  they're  all  in  the  alley  and  in  Georgie 
Bassett's  backyard." 

"I  bet  they're  not!"  Sam  said  scornfully,  his  irritation 
much  increased.  "How  do  you  know  so  much  about  it?" 

"Just  for  the  main  and  simple  reason,"  Penrod  replied, 
with  dignified  finality. 

And  at  that,  Sam  felt  a  powerful  impulse  to  do  violence 
upon  the  person  of  his  comrade-in-arms.  The  emotion  that 
prompted  this  impulse  was  so  primitive  and  straightforward 
that  it  almost  resulted  in  action ;  but  Sam  had  a  vague  sense 
that  he  must  control  it  as  long  as  he  could. 

"Bugs !"  he  said. 

Penrod  was  sensitive,  and  this  cold  word  hurt  him.  How- 
ever, he  was  under  the  domination  of  his  strategic  idea,  and 
he  subordinated  private  grievance  to  the  common  weal. 
"Get  up!"  he  commanded.  "You  get  up,  too,  Verman.  You 
got  to — it's  the  rule.  Now  here — I'll  show  you  what  we're 
goin'  to  do.  Stoop  over,  and  both  o'  you  do  just  exackly  like 

5 


/  do.  You  watch  me,  because  this  biz'nuss  has  got  to  be 
done  right!" 

Sam  muttered  something;  he  was  becoming  more  insur- 
gent every  moment,  but  he  obeyed.  Likewise,  Verman  rose 
to  his  feet,  ducked  his  head  between  his  shoulders,  and 
trotted  out  to  the  sidewalk  at  Sam's  heels,  both  following 
Penrod  and  assuming  a  stooping  position  in  imitation  of 
him.  Verman  was  delighted  with  this  phase  of  the  game, 
and,  also,  he  was  profoundly  amused  by  Penrod's  pomposity. 
Something  dim  and  deep  within  him  perceived  it  to  be  cause 
for  such  merriment  that  he  had  ado  to  master  himself,  and 
was  forced  to  bottle  and  cork  his  laughter  with  both  hands. 
They  proved  insufficient;  sputterings  burst  forth  between 
his  fingers. 

"You  stop  that !"  Penrod  said,  looking  back  darkly  upon 
the  prisoner. 

Verman  endeavoured  to  oblige,  though  giggles  continued 
to  leak  from  him  at  intervals,  and  the  three  boys  stole 
along  the  fence  in  single  file,  proceeding  in  this  fashion  until 
they  reached  Penrod's  own  front  gate.  Here  the  leader 
ascertained,  by  a  reconnaissance  as  far  as  the  corner,  that 
the  hostile  forces  were  still  looking  for  them  in  another 
direction.  He  returned  in  a  stealthy  but  important  manner 
to  his  disgruntled  follower  and  the  hilarious  captive. 

"Well,"  said  Sam  impatiently,  "I  guess  I'm  not  goin' 
to  stand  around  here  all  day,  I  guess!  You  got  anything 
you  want  to  do,  why'n't  you  go  on  and  do  it?" 

Penrod's  brow  was  already  contorted  to  present  the 
appearance  of  detached  and  lofty  concentration — a  his- 
trionic failure,  since  it  did  not  deceive  the  audience.  He 
raised  a  hushing  hand. 

"Sh!"  he  murmured.  "I  got  to  think." 

"Bugs!"  the  impolite  Mr.  Williams  said  again. 

Verman  bent  double,  squealing  and  sputtering;  indeed, 
he  was  ultimately  forced  to  sit  upon  the  ground,  so  exhaust- 
ing was  the  mirth  to  which  he  now  gave  way.  Penrod's 


6 


composure  was  somewhat  affected  and  he  showed  annoy- 
ance. 

"Oh,  I  guess  you  won't  laugh  quite  so  much  about  a 
minute  from  now,  ole  Mister  Verman!"  he  said  severely. 
"You  get  up  from  there  and  do  like  I  tell  you." 

"Well,  why'n't  you  tell  him  why  he  won't  laugh  so  much, 
then?"  Sam  demanded,  as  Verman  rose.  "Why'n't  you  do 
sump  thing  and  quit  talkin'  so  much  about  it?" 

Penrod  haughtily  led  the  way  into  the  yard. 

"You  follow  me,"  he  said,  "and  I  guess  you'll  learn  a  little 
sense !" 

Then,  abandoning  his  hauteur  for  an  air  of  mystery, 
equally  irritating  to  Sam,  he  stole  up  the  steps  of  the  porch, 
and,  after  a  moment's  manipulation  of  the  knob  of  the  big 
front  door,  contrived  to  operate  the  fastenings,  and  pushed 
the  door  open. 

"Come  on,"  he  whispered,  beckoning.  And  the  three  boys 
mounted  the  stairs  to  the  floor  above  in  silence — save  for  a 
belated  giggle  on  the  part  of  Verman  that  was  restrained 
upon  a  terrible  gesture  from  Penrod.  Verman  buried  his 
mouth  as  deeply  as  possible  in  a  ragged  sleeve,  and  con- 
fined his  demonstrations  to  a  heaving  of  the  stomach  and 
diaphragm. 

Penrod  led  the  way  into  Margaret's  dainty  room,  and 
closed  the  door. 

"There,"  he  said,  in  a  low  and  husky  voice,  "I  expect 
you'll  see  what  I'm  goin'  to  do  now !" 

"Well,  what?"  the  skeptical  Sam  asked.  "If  we  stay  here 
very  long  your  mother'll  come  and  send  us  downstairs. 
What's  the  good  of " 

"Wait,  can't  you?"  Penrod  wailed,  in  a  whisper.  "My 
goodness!"  And  going  to  an  inner  door,  he  threw  it  open, 
disclosing  a  clothes-closet  hung  with  pretty  garments  of 
many  kinds,  while  upon  its  floor  were  two  rows  of  shoes  and 
slippers  of  great  variety  and  charm. 

A  significant  thing  is  to  be  remarked  concerning  the  door 


of  this  somewhat  intimate  treasury :  there  was  no  knob  or 
latch  upon  the  inner  side,  so  that,  when  the  door  was  closed, 
it  could  be  opened  only  from  the  outside. 

"There!"  said  Penrod.  "You  get  in  there,  Verman,  and 
I'll  bet  they  won't  get  to  touch  you  back  out  o'  bein'  our 
pris'ner  very  soon,  now!  Oh,  I  guess  not!" 

"Pshaw!"  said  Sam.  "Is  that  all  you  were  goin'  to  do? 
Why,  your  mother'!!  come  and  make  him  get  out  the 
first " 

"No,  she  won't.  She  and  Margaret  have  gone  to  my 
aunt's  in  the  country,  and  aren't  goin'  to  be  back  till  dark. 
And  even  if  he  made  a  lot  o'  noise,  it's  kind  of  hard  to  hear 
anything  from  in  there,  anyway,  when  the  door's  shut.  Be- 
sides, he's  got  to  keep  quiet — that's  the  rule,  Verman. 
You're  a  pris'ner,  and  it's  the  rule  you  can't  holler  or 
nothin'.  You  unnerstand  that,  Verman?" 

"Aw  wi,"  said  Verman. 

"Then  go  on  in  there.  Hurry !" 

The  obedient  Verman  marched  into  the  closet  and  sat 
down  among  the  shoes  and  slippers,  where  he  presented  an 
interesting  effect  of  contrast.  He  was  still  subject  to  hilarity 
— though  endeavouring  to  suppress  it  by  means  of  a  patent- 
leather  slipper — when  Penrod  closed  the  door. 

"There!"  said  Penrod,  leading  the  way  from  the  room. 
"I  guess  now  you  see!" 

Sam  said  nothing,  and  they  came  out  to  the  open  air  and 
reached  their  retreat  in  the  Williams'  yard  again,  without 
his  having  acknowledged  Penrod's  service  to  their  mutual 
cause. 

"I  thought  of  that  just  as  easy !"  Penrod  remarked,  prob- 
ably prompted  to  this  odious  bit  of  complacency  by  Sam's 
withholding  the  praise  that  might  naturally  have  been 
expected.  And  he  was  moved  to  add,  "I  guess  it'd  of  been 
a  pretty  long  while  if  we'd  had  to  wait  for  you  to  think  of 
something  as  good  as  that,  Sam." 

"Why  would  it?"  Sam  asked.  "Why  would  it  of  been 
such  a  long  while?" 

8 


"Oh,"  Penrod  responded  airily,  "just  for  the  main  and 
simple  reason!" 

Sam  could  bear  it  no  longer.  "Oh,  hush  up !"  he  shouted, 

Penrod  was  stung.  "Do  you  mean  me?"  he  demanded. 

"Yes,  I  do!"  the  goaded  Sam  replied. 

"Did  you  tell  me  to  hush  up?" 

"Yes,  I  did!" 

"I  guess  you  don't  know  who  you're  talkin'  to,"  Penrod 
said  ominously.  "I  guess  I  just  better  show  you  who  you're 
talkin'  to  like  that.  I  guess  you  need  a  little  sumpthing,  for 
the  main  and  simple " 

Sam  uttered  an  uncontrollable  howl  and  sprang  upon 
Penrod,  catching  him  round  the  waist.  Simultaneously  with 
this  impact,  the  wooden  swords  spun  through  the  air  and 
were  presently  trodden  underfoot  as  the  two  boys  wrestled 
to  and  fro. 

Penrod  was  not  altogether  surprised  by  the  onset  of 
his  friend.  He  had  been  aware  of  Sam's  increasing  irrita- 
tion (though  neither  boy  could  have  clearly  stated  its 
cause)  and  that  very  irritation  produced  a  corresponding 
emotion  in  the  bosom  of  the  irritator.  Mentally,  Penrod  was 
quite  ready  for  the  conflict — nay,  he  welcomed  it — though, 
for  the  first  few  moments,  Sam  had  the  physical  advantage. 

However,  it  is  proper  that  a  neat  distinction  be  drawn 
here.  This  was  a  conflict;  but  neither  technically  nor  in 
the  intention  of  the  contestants  was  it  a  fight.  Penrod  and 
Sam  were  both  in  a  state  of  high  exasperation,  and  there 
was  great  bitterness;  but  no  blows  fell  and  no  tears.  They 
strained,  they  wrenched,  they  twisted,  and  they  panted  and 
muttered:  "Oh,  no,  you  don't!"  "Oh,  I  guess  I  do!"  "Oh, 
you  will,  will  you?"  "You'll  see  what  you  get  in  about  a 
minute!"  "I  guess  you'll  learn  some  sense  this  time!" 

Streaks  and  blotches  began  to  appear  upon  the  two  faces, 
where  colour  had  been  heightened  by  the  ardent  application 
of  a  cloth  sleeve  or  shoulder,  while  ankles  and  insteps  were 
scraped  and  toes  were  trampled.  Turf  and  shrubberies  suf- 

9 


f  ered,  also,  as  the  struggle  went  on,  until  finally  the  wrestlers 
pitched  headlong  into  a  young  lilac  bush,  and  came  to 
earth  together,  among  its  crushed  and  sprawling  branches. 

"Ooch!"  and  "Wuf!"  were  the  two  exclamations  that 
marked  this  episode,  and  then,  with  no  further  comment, 
the  struggle  was  energetically  continued  upon  a  horizontal 
plane.  Now  Penrod  was  on  top,  now  Sam ;  they  rolled,  they 
squirmed,  they  suffered.  And  this  contest  endured.  It  went 
on  and  on,  and  it  was  impossible  to  imagine  its  coming  to  a 
definite  termination.  It  went  on  so  long  that  to  both  the 
participants  it  seemed  to  be  a  permanent  thing,  a  condition 
that  had  always  existed  and  that  must  always  exist  per- 
petually. 

And  thus  they  were  discovered  by  a  foray  of  the  hostile 
party,  headed  by  Roddy  Bitts  and  Herman  and  followed 
by  the  bonded  prisoners,  Maurice  Levy  and  Georgie  Bas- 
sett.  These  and  others  caught  sight  of  the  writhing  figures, 
and  charged  down  upon  them  with  loud  cries  of  triumph. 

"Pris'ner!  Pris'ner!  Bonded  prisoner!"  shrieked  Roddy 
Bitts,  and  touched  Penrod  and  Sam,  each  in  turn,  with  his 
sabre.  Then,  seeing  that  they  paid  no  attention  and  that 
they  were  at  his  mercy,  he  recalled  the  fact  that  several 
times,  during  earlier  stages  of  the  game,  both  of  them  had 
been  unnecessarily  vigorous  in  "touching"  his  own  rather 
plump  person.  Therefore,  the  opportunity  being  excellent, 
he  raised  his  weapon  again,  and,  repeating  the  words 
"bonded  pris'ner"  as  ample  explanation  of  his  deed,  brought 
into  play  the  full  strength  of  his  good  right  arm.  He  used 
the  flat  of  the  sabre. 

Whack!  Whack!  Roddy  was  perfectly  impartial.  It  was 
a  cold-blooded  performance  and  even  more  effective  than  he 
anticipated.  For  one  thing,  it  ended  the  civil  war  instantly. 
Sam  and  Penrod  leaped  to  their  feet,  shrieking  and  blood- 
thirsty, while  Maurice  Levy  capered  with  joy,  Herman  was 
so  overcome  that  he  rolled  upon  the  ground,  and  Georgie 
Bassett  remarked  virtuously: 

"It  serves  them  right  for  fighting." 

10 


But  Roddy  Bitts  foresaw  that  something  not  within  the 
rules  of  the  game  was  about  to  happen. 

"Here!  You  keep  away  from  me!"  he  quavered,  retreat- 
ing. "I  was  just  takin'  you  pris'ners.  I  guess  I  had  a  right 
to  touch  you,  didn't  I?" 

Alas !  Neither  Sam  nor  Penrod  was  able  to  see  the  matter 
in  that  light.  They  had  retrieved  their  own  weapons,  and 
they  advanced  upon  Roddy  with  a  purposefubiess  that 
seemed  horrible  to  him. 

"Here !  You  keep  away  from  me !"  he  said,  in  great  alarm. 
"I'm  goin'  home." 

He  did  go  home — but  only  subsequently.  What  took  place 
before  his  departure  had  the  singular  solidity  and  com- 
pleteness of  systematic  violence;  also,  it  bore  the  moral 
beauty  of  all  actions  that  lead  to  peace  and  friendship,  for, 
when  it  was  over,  and  the  final  vocalizations  of  Roderick 
Magsworth  Bitts,  Junior,  were  growing  faint  with  increas- 
ing distance,  Sam  and  Penrod  had  forgotten  their  differ- 
ences and  felt  well  disposed  toward  each  other  once  more.  All 
their  animosity  was  exhausted,  and  they  were  in  a  glow  of 
good  feeling,  though  probably  they  were  not  conscious 
of  any  direct  gratitude  to  Roddy,  whose  thoughtful  oppor- 
tunism was  really  the  cause  of  this  happy  result. 


11 


THE  BONDED   PRISONER 

A?TER  such  rigorous  events,  every  one  comprehended 
that  the  game  of  bonded  prisoner  was  over,  and 
there  was  no  suggestion  that  it  should  or  might  be 
resumed.  The  fashion  of  its  conclusion  had  been  so  con- 
summately enjoyed  by  all  parties  (with  the  natural  excep- 
tion of  Roddy  Bitts)  that  a  renewal  would  have  been  tame; 
hence,  the  various  minds  of  the  company  turned  to  other 
matters  and  became  restless.  Georgie  Bassett  withdrew  first, 
remembering  that  if  he  expected  to  be  as  wonderful  as  usual, 
to-morrow  in  Sunday-school,  it  was  time  to  prepare  him- 
self, though  this  was  not  included  in  the  statement  he  made 
alleging  the  cause  of  his  departure.  Being  detained  bodily 


and  pressed  for  explanation,  he  desperately  said  that  he  had 
to  go  home  to  tease  the  cook — which  had  the  rakehelly  air 
he  thought  would  insure  his  release,  but  was  not  considered 
plausible.  However,  he  was  finally  allowed  to  go,  and,  as 
first  hints  of  evening  were  already  cooling  and  darkening 
the  air,  the  party  broke  up,  its  members  setting  forth, 
whistling,  toward  their  several  homes,  though  Penrod 
lingered  with  Sam.  Herman  was  the  last  to  go  from  them. 

"Well,  I  got  git  'at  stove-wood  f '  suppuh,"  he  said,  rising 
and  stretching  himself.  "I  got  git  'at  lil'  soap-box  wagon, 
an'  go  on  ovuh  wheres  'at  new  house  buil'in'  on  Secon'  Street ; 
pick  up  few  shingles  an'  blocks  layin'  roun'." 

He  went  through  the  yard  toward  the  alley,  and,  at  the 
alley  gate,  remembering  something,  he  paused  and  called  to 
them.  The  lot  was  a  deep  one,  and  they  were  too  far  away 
to  catch  his  meaning.  Sam  shouted,  "Can't  hear  you !"  and 
Herman  replied,  but  still  unintelligibly;  then,  upon  Sam's 
repetition  of  "Can't  hear  you!"  Herman  waved  his  arm  in 
farewell,  implying  that  the  matter  was  of  little  significance, 
and  vanished.  But  if  they  had  understood  him,  Penrod  and 
Sam  might  have  considered  his  inquiry  of  instant  im- 
portance, for  Herman's  last  shout  was  to  ask  if  either  of 
them  had  noticed  "where  Verman  went." 

Verman  and  Verman's  whereabouts  were,  at  this  hour,  of 
no  more  concern  to  Sam  and  Penrod  than  was  the  other  side 
of  the  moon.  That  unfortunate  bonded  prisoner  had  been 
long  since  utterly  effaced  from  their  fields  of  consciousness, 
and  the  dark  secret  of  their  Bastille  troubled  them  not — 
for  the  main  and  simple  reason  that  they  had  forgotten  it. 

They  drifted  indoors,  and  found  Sam's  mother's  white  cat 
drowsing  on  a  desk  in  the  library,  the  which  coincidence 
obviously  inspired  the  experiment  of  ascertaining  how  suc- 
cessfully ink  could  be  used  in  making  a  clean  white  cat  look 
like  a  coach-dog.  There  was  neither  malice  nor  mischief  in 
their  idea ;  simply,  a  problem  presented  itself  to  the  biological 
and  artistic  questionings  beginning  to  stir  within  them.  They 
did  not  mean  to  do  the  cat  the  slightest  injury  or  to  cause 

13 


her  any  pain.  They  were  above  teasing  cats,  and  they  merely 
detained  this  one  and  made  her  feel  a  little  wet — at  consider- 
able cost  to  themselves  from  both  the  ink  and  the  cat.  How- 
ever, at  the  conclusion  of  their  efforts,  it  was  thought  safer 
to  drop  the  cat  out  of  the  window  before  anybody  came,  and, 
after  some  hasty  work  with  blotters,  the  desk  was  moved  to 
cover  certain  sections  of  the  rug,  and  the  two  boys  repaired 
to  the  bathroom  for  hot  water  and  soap.  They  knew  they 
had  done  nothing  wrong ;  but  they  felt  easier  when  the  only 
traces  remaining  upon  them  were  the  less  prominent  ones 
upon  their  garments. 

These  precautions  taken,  it  was  time  for  them  to  make 
their  appearance  at  Penrod's  house  for  dinner,  for  it  had 
been  arranged,  upon  petition  earlier  in  the  day,  that  Sam 
should  be  his  friend's  guest  for  the  evening  meal.  Clean  to  the 
elbows  and  with  light  hearts,  they  set  forth.  They  marched, 
whistling — though  not  producing  a  distinctly  musical  effect, 
since  neither  had  any  particular  air  in  mind — and  they  found 
nothing  wrong  with  the  world;  they  had  not  a  care.  Arrived 
at  their  adjacent  destination,  they  found  Miss  Margaret 
Schofield  just  entering  the  front  door. 

"Hurry,  boys!"  she  said.  "Mamma  came  home  long  be- 
fore I  did,  and  I'm  sure  dinner  is  waiting.  Run  on  out  to 
the  dining-room  and  tell  them  I'll  be  right  down." 

And,  as  they  obeyed,  she  mounted  the  stairs,  humming  a 
little  tune  and  unfastening  the  clasp  of  the  long,  light-blue 
military  cape  she  wore.  She  went  to  her  own  quiet  room,  lit 
the  gas,  removed  her  hat  and  placed  it  and  the  cape  upon 
the  bed;  after  which  she  gave  her  hair  a  push,  subsequent 
to  her  scrutiny  of  a  mirror;  then,  turning  out  the  light, 
she  went  as  far  as  the  door.  Being  an  orderly  girl,  she  re- 
turned to  the  bed  and  took  the  cape  and  the  hat  to  her 
clothes-closet.  She  opened  the  door  of  this  sanctuary,  and,  in 
the  dark,  hung  her  cape  upon  a  hook  and  placed  her  hat 
upon  the  shelf.  Then  she  closed  the  door  again,  having  noted 
nothing  unusual,  though  she  had  an  impression  that  the 
place  needed  airing.  She  descended  to  the  dinner  table. 


The  other  members  of  the  family  were  already  occupied 
with  the  meal,  and  the  visitor  was  replying  politely,  in  his 
non-masticatory  intervals,  to  inquiries  concerning  the  health 
of  his  relatives.  So  sweet  and  assured  was  the  condition  of 
Sam  and  Penrod  that  Margaret's  arrival  from  her  room 
meant  nothing  to  them.  Their  memories  were  not  stirred,  and 
they  continued  eating,  their  expressions  brightly  placid. 

But  from  out  of  doors  there  came  the  sound  of  a  calling 
and  questing  voice,  at  first  in  the  distance,  then  growing 
louder — coming  nearer. 

"Oh,  Ver-er-man !  O-o-o-oh,  Ver-er-ma-a-an !" 

It  was  the  voice  of  Herman. 

"Oo-o-o-o-oh,  Ver-er-er-ma-a-a-an!" 

And  then  two  boys  sat  stricken  at  that  cheerful  table  and 
ceased  to  eat.  Recollection  awoke  with  a  bang ! 

"Oh,  my !"  Sam  gasped. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Mr.  Schofield  said.  "Swallow  some- 
thing the  wrong  way,  Sam?" 

"Ye-es,  sir." 

"Oo-o-o-oh,  Ver-er-er-ma-a-an!" 

And  now  the  voice  was  near  the  windows  of  the  dining- 
room. 

Penrod,  very  pale,  pushed  back  his  chair  and  jumped  up. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  his  father  demanded.  "Sit 
down!" 

"It's  Herman — that  coloured  boy  lives  in  the  alley,"  Pen- 
rod  said  hoarsely.  "I — expect — I  think " 

"Well,  what's  the  matter?" 

"I  think  his  little  brother's  maybe  got  lost,  and  Sam  and 
I  better  go  help  look " 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  Mr.  Schofield  said 
sharply.  "Sit  down  and  eat  your  dinner." 

In  a  palsy,  the  miserable  boy  resumed  his  seat.  He  and 
Sam  exchanged  a  single  dumb  glance;  then  the  eyes  of  both 
swung  fearfully  to  Margaret.  Her  appearance  was  one  of 
sprightly  content,  and,  from  a  certain  point  of  view,  nothing 
could  have  been  more  alarming.  If  she  had  opened  her  closet 

15 


door  without  discovering  Verman,  that  must  have  been  be- 
cause Verman  was  dead  and  Margaret  had  failed  to  notice 
the  body.  (Such  were  the  thoughts  of  Penrod  and  Sam.)  But 
she  might  not  have  opened  the  closet  door.  And  whether  she 
had  or  not,  Verman  must  still  be  there,  alive  or  dead,  for  if 
he  had  escaped  he  would  have  gone  home,  and  their  ears 
would  not  be  ringing  with  the  sinister  and  melancholy  cry 
that  now  came  from  the  distance,  "Oo-o-oh,  Ver-er-ma-an!" 

Verman,  in  his  seclusion,  did  not  hear  that  appeal  from 
his  brother;  there  were  too  many  walls  between  them.  But 
he  was  becoming  impatient  for  release,  though,  all  in  all, 
he  had  not  found  the  confinement  intolerable  or  even  very 
irksome.  His  character  was  philosophic,  his  imagination 
calm;  no  bugaboos  came  to  trouble  him.  When  the  boys 
closed  the  door  upon  him,  he  made  himself  comfortable 
upon  the  floor  and,  for  a  time,  thoughtfully  chewed  a  patent- 
leather  slipper  that  had  come  under  his  hand.  He  found  the 
patent  leather  not  unpleasant  to  his  palate,  though  he  swal- 
lowed only  a  portion  of  what  he  detached,  not  being  hungry 
at  that  time.  The  soul-fabric  of  Verman  was  of  a  fortunate 
weave;  he  was  not  a  seeker  and  questioner.  When  it  hap- 
pened to  him  that  he  was  at  rest  in  a  shady  corner,  he  did 
not  even  think  about  a  place  in  the  sun.  Verman  took  life 
as  it  came. 

Naturally,  he  fell  asleep.  And  toward  the  conclusion  of  his 
slumbers,  he  had  this  singular  adventure :  a  lady  set  her  foot 
down  within  less  than  half  an  inch  of  his  nose — and  neither 
of  them  knew  it.  Verman  slept  on,  without  being  wakened 
by  either  the  closing  or  the  opening  of  the  door.  What  did 
rouse  him  was  something'ample  and  soft  falling  upon  him — 
Margaret's  cape,  which  slid  from  the  hook  after  she  had 
gone. 

Enveloped  in  its  folds,  Verman  sat  up,  corkscrewing  his 
knuckles  into  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  Slowly  he  became  aware 
of  two  important  vacuums — one  in  time  and  one  in  his 
stomach.  Hours  had  vanished  strangely  into  nowhere;  the 
game  of  bonded  prisoner  was  something  cloudy  and  remote 

16 


of  the  long,  long  ago,  and,  although  Verman  knew  where  he 
was,  he  had  partially  forgotten  how  he  came  there.  He  per- 
ceived, however,  that  something  had  gone  wrong,  for  he  was 
certain  that  he  ought  not  to  be  where  he  found  himself. 

White-Folks'  House!  The  fact  that  Verman  could  not  have 
pronounced  these  words  rendered  them  no  less  clear  in  his 
mind ;  they  began  to  stir  his  apprehension,  and  nothing  be- 
comes more  rapidly  tumultuous  than  apprehension  once  it  is 
stirred.  That  he  might  possibly  obtain  release  by  making  a 
noise  was  too  daring  a  thought  and  not  even  conceived,  much 
less  entertained,  by  the  little  and  humble  Verman.  For,  with 
the  bewildering  gap  of  his  slumber  between  him  and  previous 
events,  he  did  not  place  the  responsibility  for  his  being  in 
White-Folks'  House  upon  the  white  folks  who  had  put  him 
there.  His  state  of  mind  was  that  of  the  stable-puppy  who 
knows  he  must  not  be  found  in  the  parlour.  Not  thrice  in  his 
life  had  Verman  been  within  the  doors  of  White-Folks' 
House,  and,  above  all  things,  he  felt  that  it  was  in  some  un- 
defined way  vital  to  him  to  get  out  of  White-Folks'  House 
unobserved  and  unknown.  It  was  in  his  very  blood  to  be  sure 
of  that. 

Further  than  this  point,  the  processes  of  Verman's  mind 
become  mysterious  to  the  observer.  It  appears,  however,  that 
he  had  a  definite  (though  somewhat  primitive)  conception  of 
the  usefulness  of  disguise ;  and  he  must  have  begun  his  prepa- 
rations before  he  heard  footsteps  in  the  room  outside  his 
closed  door. 

These  footsteps  were  Margaret's.  Just  as  Mr.  Schofield's 
coffee  was  brought,  and  just  after  Penrod  had  been  baffled  in 
another  attempt  to  leave  the  table,  Margaret  rose  and  patted 
her  father  impertinently  upon  the  head. 

"You  can't  bully  me  that  way!"  she  said.  "I  got  home 
too  late  to  dress,  and  I'm  going  to  a  dance.  'Scuse !" 

And  she  began  her  dancing  on  the  spot,  pirouetting  her- 
self swiftly  out  of  the  room,  and  was  immediately  heard  run- 
ning up  the  stairs. 

"Penrod!"  Mr.  Schofield  shouted.  "Sit  down!  How  many 

17 


times  am  I  going  to  tell  you?  What  is  the  matter  with  you 
to-night?" 

"I  got  to  go,"  Penrod  gasped.  "I  got  to  tell  Margaret 
sumpthing." 

"What  have  you  'got'  to  tell  her?" 

"It's— it's  sumpthing  I  forgot  to  tell  her." 

"Well,  it  will  keep  till  she  comes  downstairs,"  Mr.  Scho- 
field said  grimly.  "You  sit  down  till  this  meal  is  finished." 

Penrod  was  becoming  frantic. 

"I  got  to  tell  her — it's  sumpthing  Sam's  mother  told  me  to 
tell  her,"  he  babbled.  "Didn't  she,  Sam?  You  heard  her  tell 
me  to  tell  her;  didn't  you,  Sam?" 

Sam  offered  prompt  corroboration. 

"Yes,  sir ;  she  did.  She  said  for  us  both  to  tell  her.  I  better 
go,  too,  I  guess,  because  she  said " 

He  was  interrupted.  Startlingly  upon  their  ears  rang 
shriek  on  shriek.  Mrs.  Schofield,  recognizing  Margaret's 
voice,  likewise  shrieked,  and  Mr.  Schofield  uttered  various 
sounds;  but  Penrod  and  Sam  were  incapable  of  doing  any- 
thing vocally.  All  rushed  from  the  table. 

Margaret  continued  to  shriek,  and  it  is  not  to  be  denied 
that  there  was  some  cause  for  her  agitation.  When  she  opened 
the  closet  door,  her  light-blue  military  cape,  instead  of  hang- 
ing on  the  hook  where  she  had  left  it,  came  out  into  the  room 
in  a  manner  that  she  afterward  described  as  "a  kind  of  hor- 
rible creep,  but  faster  than  a  creep."  Nothing  was  to  be  seen 
except  the  creeping  cape,  she  said,  but,  of  course,  she  could 
tell  there  was  some  awful  thing  inside  of  it.  It  was  too  large 
to  be  a  cat,  and  too  small  to  be  a  boy ;  it  was  too  large  to  be 
Duke,  Penrod's  little  old  dog,  and,  besides,  Duke  wouldn't 
act  like  that.  It  crept  rapidly  out  into  the  upper  hall,  and 
then,  as  she  recovered  the  use  of  her  voice  and  began  to 
scream,  the  animated  cape  abandoned  its  creeping  for  a 
quicker  gait — "a  weird,  heaving  flop",  she  defined  it. 

The  Thing  then  decided  upon  a  third  style  of  locomotion, 
evidently,  for  when  Sam  and  Penrod  reached  the  front  hall, 

18 


a  few  steps  in  advance  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Schofield,  it  was 
rolling  grandly  down  the  stairs. 

Mr.  Schofield  had  only  a  hurried  glimpre  of  it  as  it  reached 
the  bottom,  close  by  the  front  door. 

"Grab  that  thing !"  he  shouted,  dashing  forward.  "Stop  it ! 
Hit  it!" 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Sam  Williams  displayed  the 
presence  of  mind  that  was  his  most  eminent  characteristic. 
Sam's  wonderful  instinct  for  the  right  action  almost  never 
failed  him  in  a  crisis,  and  it  did  not  fail  him  now.  Leaping 
to  the  door,  at  the  very  instant  when  the  rolling  cape  touched 
it,  Sam  flung  the  door  open — and  the  cape  rolled  on.  With 
incredible  rapidity  and  intelligence,  it  rolled,  indeed,  out  into 
the  night. 

Penrod  jumped  after  it,  and  the  next  second  reappeared 
in  the  doorway  holding  the  cape.  He  shook  out  its  folds, 
breathing  hard  but  acquiring  confidence.  In  fact,  he  was  able 
to  look  up  in  his  father's  face  and  say,  with  bright  in- 
genuousness : 

"It  was  just  laying  there.  Do  you  know  what  I  think? 
Well,  it  couldn't  have  acted  that  way  itself.  7  think  there 
must  have  been  sumpthing  kind  of  inside  of  it !" 

Mr.  Schofield  shook  his  head  slowly,  in  marvelling  ad- 
miration. "Brilliant — oh,  brilliant!"  he  murmured,  while 
Mrs.  Schofield  ran  to  support  the  enfeebled  form  of  Mar- 
garet at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

...  In  the  library,  after  Margaret's  departure  to  her 
dance,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Schofield  were  still  discussing  the  visita- 
tion, Penrod  having  accompanied  his  homeward-bound  guest 
as  far  as  the  front  gate. 

"No;  you're  wrong,"  Mrs.  Schofield  said,  upholding  a 
theory,  earlier  developed  by  Margaret,  that  the  animated 
behaviour  of  the  cape  could  be  satisfactorily  explained  on  no 
other  ground  than  the  supernatural.  "You  see,  the  boys  say- 
ing they  couldn't  remember  what  Mrs.  Williams  wanted  them 
to  tell  Margaret,  and  that  probably  she  hadn't  told  them 
anything  to  tell  her,  because  most  likely  they'd  misunder- 

19 


stood  something  she  said — well,  of  course,  all  that  does  sound 
mixed-up  and  peculiar;  but  they  sound  that  way  about 
half  the  time,  anyhow.  No ;  it  couldn't  possibly  have  had  a 
thing  to  do  with  it.  They  were  right  there  at  the  table  with 
us  all  the  time,  and  they  came  straight  to  the  table  the  minute 
they  entered  the  house.  Before  that,  they'd  been  over  at 
Sam's  all  afternoon.  So,  it  couldn't  have  been  the  boys." 
Mrs.  Schofield  paused  to  ruminate  with  a  little  air  of  pride ; 
then  added:  "Margaret  has  often  thought — oh,  long  before 
this ! — that  she  was  a  medium.  I  mean — if  she  would  let  her- 
self. So  it  wasn't  anything  the  boys  did." 

Mr.  Schofield  grunted.  "I'll  admit  this  much,"  he  said. 
"I'll  admit  it  wasn't  anything  we'll  ever  get  out  of  'em." 

And  the  remarks  of  Sam  and  Penrod,  taking  leave  of 
each  other,  one  on  each  side  of  the  gate,  appeared  to  cor- 
roborate Mr.  Schofield's  opinion. 

"Well,  g'-night,  Penrod,"  Sam  said.  "It  was  a  pretty  good 
Saturday,  wasn't  it?" 

"Fine!"  said  Penrod  casually.  "G'-night,  Sam." 


THE  IN-OR-IN 

GEORGIE  BASSETT  was  a  boy  set  apart.  Not  only 
that ;  Georgia  knew  that  he  was  a  boy  set  apart.  He 
would  think  about  it  for  ten  or  twenty  minutes  at  a 
time,  and  he  could  not  look  at  himself  in  a  mirror  and  remain 
wholly  without  emotion.  What  that  emotion  was,  he  would 
have  been  unable  to  put  into  words;  but  it  helped  him  to 
understand  that  there  was  a  certain  noble  something  about 
him  that  other  boys  did  not  possess. 

Georgie's  mother  had  been  the  first  to  discover  that 
Georgie  was  a  boy  set  apart.  In  fact,  Georgie  did  not  know 
it  until  one  day  when  he  happened  to  overhear  his  mother 
telling  two  of  his  aunts  about  it.  True,  he  had  always  under- 
stood that  he  was  the  best  boy  in  town  and  he  intended  to 


be  a  minister  when  he  grew  up;  but  he  had  never  before 
comprehended  the  full  extent  of  his  sanctity,  and,  from 
that  fraught  moment  onward,  he  had  an  almost  theatrical 
sense  of  his  set-apartness. 

Penrod  Schofield  and  Sam  Williams  and  the  other  boys 
of  the  neighbourhood  all  were  conscious  that  there  was 
something  different  and  spiritual  about  Georgie,  and< 
though  this  consciousness  of  theirs  may  have  been  a  little 
obscure,  it  was  none  the  less  actual.  That  is  to  say,  they 
knew  that  Georgie  Bassett  was  a  boy  set  apart;  but  they 
did  not  know  that  they  knew  it.  Georgie's  air  and  manner 
at  all  times  demonstrated  to  them  that  the  thing  was  so, 
and,  moreover,  their  mothers  absorbed  appreciation  of 
Georgie's  wonderfulness  from  the  very  fount  of  it,  for  Mrs. 
Bassett's  conversation  was  of  little  else.  Thus,  the  radiance 
of  his  character  became  the  topic  of  envious  parental  com- 
ment during  moments  of  strained  patience  in  many  homes, 
so  that  altogether  the  most  remarkable  fact  to  be  stated 
of  Georgie  Bassett  is  that  he  escaped  the  consequences  as 
long  as  he  did. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  no  actual  violence  was  done  him, 
except  upon  the  incidental  occasion  of  a  tar-fight  into 
which  he  was  drawn  by  an  obvious  eccentricity  on  the  part 
of  destiny.  Naturally,  he  was  not  popular  with  his  com- 
rades; in  all  games  he  was  pushed  aside,  and  disregarded, 
being  invariably  the  tail-ender  in  every  pastime  in  which 
leaders  "chose  sides";  his  counsels  were  slighted  as  worse 
than  weightless,  and  all  his  opinions  instantly  hooted.  Still, 
considering  the  circumstances  fairly  and  thoughtfully,  it  is 
difficult  to  deny  that  his  boy  companions  showed  creditable 
moderation  in  their  treatment  of  him.  That  is,  they  were 
moderate  up  to  a  certain  date,  and  even  then  they  did  not 
directly  attack  him — there  was  nothing  cold-blooded  about 
it  at  all.  The  thing  was  forced  upon  them,  and,  though  they 
all  felt  pleased  and  uplifted — while  it  was  happening — they 
did  not  understand  precisely  why.  Nothing  could  more 
clearly  prove  their  innocence  of  heart  than  this  very 


ignorance,  and  yet  none  of  the  grown  people  who  later  felt 
themselves  concerned  in  the  matter  was  able  to  look  at  it  in 
that  light.  Now,  here  was  a  characteristic  working  of  those 
reactions  that  produce  what  is  sometimes  called  "the  injus- 
tice of  life",  because  the  grown  people  were  responsible  for 
the  whole  affair  and  were  really  the  guilty  parties.  It  was 
from  grown  people  that  Georgie  Bassett  learned  he  was  a 
boy  set  apart,  and  the  effect  upon  him  was  what  alienated 
his  friends.  Then  these  alienated  friends  were  brought  (by 
odious  comparisons  on  the  part  of  grown  people)  to  a  con- 
dition of  mind  wherein  they  suffered  dumb  annoyance,  like 
a  low  fever,  whenever  they  heard  Georgie's  name  mentioned, 
while  association  with  his  actual  person  became  every  day 
more  and  more  irritating.  And  yet,  having  laid  this  fuse  and 
having  kept  it  constantly  glowing,  the  grown  people  ex- 
pected nothing  to  happen  to  Georgie. 

The  catastrophe  befell  as  a  consequence  of  Sam  Wil- 
liams deciding  to  have  a  shack  in  his  backyard.  Sam  had 
somehow  obtained  a  vasty  piano-box  and  a  quantity  of 
lumber,  and,  summoning  Penrod  Schofield  and  the  coloured 
brethren,  Herman  and  Verman,  he  expounded  to  them  his 
building-plans  and  offered  them  shares  and  benefits  in  the 
institution  he  proposed  to  found.  Acceptance  was  enthusi- 
astic; straightway  the  assembly  became  a  union  of  car- 
penters all  of  one  mind,  and  ten  days  saw  the  shack  not 
completed  but  comprehensible.  Anybody  could  tell,  by  that 
time,  that  it  was  intended  for  a  shack. 

There  was  a  door  on  leather  hinges ;  it  drooped,  perhaps, 
but  it  was  a  door.  There  was  a  window — not  a  glass  one, 
but,  at  least,  it  could  be  "looked  out  of",  as  Sam  said. 
There  was  a  chimney  made  of  stovepipe,  though  that  was 
merely  decorative,  because  the  cooking  was  done  out  of 
doors  in  an  underground  "furnace"  that  the  boys  exca- 
vated. There  were  pictures  pasted  on  the  interior  walls, 
and,  hanging  from  a  nail,  there  was  a  crayon  portrait  of 
Sam's  grandfather,  which  he  had  brought  down  from  the 
attic  quietly,  though,  as  he  said,  it  "wasn't  any  use  on  earth 


up  there."  There  were  two  lame  chairs  from  Penrod's  attic, 
and  along  one  wall  ran  a  low  and  feeble  structure  intended 
to  serve  as  a  bench  or  divan.  This  would  come  in  handy, 
Sam  said,  if  any  of  the  party  "had  to  lay  down  or  any- 
thing", and  at  a  pinch  (such  as  a  meeting  of  the  associa- 
tion) it  would  serve  to  seat  all  the  members  in  a  row. 

For,  coincidentally  with  the  development  of  the  shack, 
the  builders  became  something  more  than  partners.  Later, 
no  one  could  remember  who  first  suggested  the  founding  of 
a  secret  order,  or  society,  as  a  measure  of  exclusiveness  and 
to  keep  the  shack  sacred  to  members  only ;  but  it  was  an 
idea  that  presently  began  to  be  more  absorbing  and  satis- 
factory than  even  the  shack  itself.  The  outward  manifesta- 
tions of  it  might  have  been  observed  in  the  increased 
solemnity  and  preoccupation  of  the  Caucasian  members  and 
in  a  few  ceremonial  observances  exposed  to  the  public  eye. 
As  an  instance  of  these  latter,  Mrs.  Williams,  happening  to 
glance  from  a  rearward  window,  about  four  o'clock  one 
afternoon,  found  her  attention  arrested  by  what  seemed  to 
be  a  flag-raising  before  the  door  of  the  shack.  Sam  and  Her- 
man and  Verman  stood  in  attitudes  of  rigid  attention, 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  while  Penrod  Schofield,  facing  them, 
was  apparently  delivering  some  sort  of  exhortation,  which 
he  read  from  a  scribbled  sheet  of  foolscap.  Concluding  this, 
he  lifted  from  the  ground  a  long  and  somewhat  warped 
clothes-prop,  from  one  end  of  which  hung  a  whitish  flag, 
or  pennon,  bearing  an  inscription.  Sam  and  Herman  and 
Verman  lifted  their  right  hands,  while  Penrod  placed  the 
other  end  of  the  clothes-prop  in  a  hole  in  the  ground, 
with  the  pennon  fluttering  high  above  the  shack.  He  then 
raised  his  own  right  hand,  and  the  four  boys  repeated  some- 
thing in  concert.  It  was  inaudible  to  Mrs.  Williams ;  but  she 
was  able  to  make  out  the  inscription  upon  the  pennon.  It 
consisted  of  the  peculiar  phrase  "In-Or-In"  done  in  black 
paint  upon  a  muslin  ground,  and  consequently  seeming  to 
be  in  need  of  a  blotter. 

It  recurred  to  her  mind,  later  that  evening,  when  she 


happened  to  find  herself  alone  with  Sam  in  the  library,  and, 
in  merest  idle  curiosity,  she  asked:  "Sam,  what  does  'In- 
Or-In'  mean?" 

Sam,  bending  over  an  arithmetic,  uncreased  his  brow  till 
it  became  of  a  blank  and  marble  smoothness. 

"Ma'am?" 

"What  are  those  words  on  your  flag?" 

Sam  gave  her  a  long,  cold,  mystic  look,  rose  to  his  feet 
and  left  the  room  with  emphasis  and  dignity.  For  a  moment 
she  was  puzzled.  But  Sam's  older  brother  was  this  year  com- 
pleting his  education  at  a  university,  and  Mrs.  Williams 
was  not  altogether  ignorant  of  the  obligations  of  secrecy 
imposed  upon  some  brotherhoods;  so  she  was  able  to  com- 
prehend Sam's  silent  withdrawal,  and,  instead  of  summon- 
ing him  back  for  further  questions,  she  waited  until  he 
was  out  of  hearing  and  then  began  to  laugh. 

Sam's  action  was  in  obedience  to  one  of  the  rules  adopted, 
at  his  own  suggestion,  as  a  law  of  the  order.  Penrod  ad- 
vocated it  warmly.  From  Margaret  he  had  heard  accounts 
of  her  friends  in  college  and  thus  had  learned  much  that 
ought  to  be  done.  On  the  other  hand,  Herman  subscribed 
to  it  with  reluctance,  expressing  a  decided  opinion  that  if 
he  and  Verman  were  questioned  upon  the  matter  at  home 
and  adopted  the  line  of  conduct  required  by  the  new  rule,  it 
would  be  well  for  them  to  depart  not  only  from  the  room  in 
which  the  questioning  took  place  but  from  the  house,  and 
hurriedly  at  that.  "An'  stay  away!"  he  concluded. 

Verman,  being  tongue-tied — not  without  advantage  in 
this  case,  and  surely  an  ideal  qualification  for  membership 
— was  not  so  apprehensive.  He  voted  with  Sam  and  Penrod, 
carrying  the  day. 

New  rules  were  adopted  at  every  meeting  (though  it 
cannot  be  said  that  all  of  them  were  practicable)  for,  in 
addition  to  the  information  possessed  by  Sam  and  Penrod, 
Herman  and  Verman  had  many  ideas  of  their  own,  founded 
upon  remarks  overheard  at  home.  Both  their  parents  be- 
longed to  secret  orders,  their  father  to  the  Innapenent 

25 


'Nevolent  Lodge  (so  stated  by  Herman)  and  their  mother 
to  the  Order  of  White  Doves. 

From  these  and  other  sources,  Penrod  found  no  diffi- 
culty in  compiling  material  for  what  came  to  be  known  as 
the  "rixual";  and  it  was  the  rixual  he  was  reading  to  the 
members  when  Mrs.  Williams  happened  to  observe  the  cere- 
monial raising  of  the  emblem  of  the  order. 

The  rixual  contained  the  oath,  a  key  to  the  secret  lan- 
guage, or  code  (devised  by  Penrod  for  use  in  uncertain 
emergencies)  and  passwords  for  admission  to  the  shack,  also 
instructions  for  recognizing  a  brother  member  in  the  dark, 
and  a  rather  alarming  sketch  of  the  things  to  be  done  dur- 
ing the  initiation  of  a  candidate. 

This  last  was  employed  for  the  benefit  of  Master  Rod- 
erick Magsworth  Bitts,  Junior,  on  the  Saturday  following 
the  flag-raising.  He  presented  himself  in  Sam's  yard,  not 
for  initiation,  indeed — having  no  previous  knowledge  of  the 
Society  of  the  In-Or-In — but  for  general  purposes  of  sport 
and  pastime.  At  first  sight  of  the  shack  he  expressed  an- 
ticipations of  pleasure,  adding  some  suggestions  for  im- 
proving the  architectural  effect.  Being  prevented,  however, 
from  entering,  and  even  from  standing  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  sacred  building,  he  plaintively  demanded  an  explana- 
tion; whereupon  he  was  commanded  to  withdraw  to  the 
front  yard  for  a  time,  and  the  members  held  meeting  in 
the  shack.  Roddy  was  elected,  and  consented  to  undergo  the 
initiation. 

He  was  not  the  only  new  member  that  day.  A  short  time 
after  Roddy  had  been  taken  into  the  shack  for  the  reading 
of  the  rixual  and  other  ceremonies,  little  Maurice  Levy 
entered  the  Williams'  gate  and  strolled  round  to  the  back- 
yard, looking  for  Sam.  He  was  surprised  and  delighted  to 
behold  the  promising  shack,  and,  like  Roddy,  entertained 
fair  hopes  for  the  future. 

The  door  of  the  shack  was  closed;  a  board  covered  the 
window,  but  a  murmur  of  voices  came  from  within.  Maurice 
stole  close  and  listened.  Through  a  crack  he  could  see  the 

26 


flicker  of  a  candle-flame,  and  he  heard  the  voice  of  Penrod 
Schofield : 

"Roddy  Bitts,  do  you  solemnly  swear?" 

"Well,  all  right,"  said  the  voice  of  Roddy,  somewhat 
breathless. 

"How  many  fingers  you  see  before  your  eyes?" 

"Can't  see  any,"  Roddy  returned.  "How  could  I,  with 
this  thing  over  my  eyes,  and  laying  down  on  my  stummick, 
anyway?" 

"Then  the  time  has  come,"  Penrod  announced  in  solemn 
tones.  "The  time  has  come." 

Whack! 

Evidently  a  broad  and  flat  implement  was  thereupon  ap- 
plied to  Roddy. 

"Ow!"  complained  the  candidate. 

"No  noise!"  said  Penrod  sternly,  and  added:  "Roddy 
Bitts  must  now  say  the  oath.  Say  exackly  what  I  say, 
Roddy,  and  if  you  don't — well,  you  better,  because  you'll 
see !  Now,  say  'I  solemnly  swear ' ' 

"I  solemnly  swear — "  Roddy  said. 

"To  keep  the  secrets " 

"To  keep  the  secrets "  Roddy  repeated. 

"To  keep  the  secrets  in  infadelaty  and  violate  and  sanc- 
tuary." 

"What?"  Roddy  naturally  inquired. 

Whack! 

"Ow!"  cried  Roddy.  "That's  no  fair!" 

"You  got  to  say  just  what  7  say,"  Penrod  was  heard  in- 
forming him.  "That's  the  rixual,  and  anyway,  even  if  you 
do  get  it  right,  Verman's  got  to  hit  you  every  now  and  then, 
because  that's  part  of  the  rixual,  too.  Now  go  on  and  say 
it.  'I  solemnly  swear  to  keep  the  secrets  in  infadelaty  and 
violate  and  sanctuary.' ' 

"I  solemnly  swear "  Roddy  began. 

But  Maurice  Levy  was  tired  of  being  no  party  to  such 
fascinating  proceedings,  and  he  began  to  hammer  upon  the 
door. 

27 


"Sam!  Sam  Williams!"  he  shouted.  "Lemme  in  there!  I 
know  lots  about  'nishiatin'.  Lemme  in!" 

The  door  was  flung  open,  revealing  Roddy  Bitts,  blind- 
folded and  bound,  lying  face  down  upon  the  floor  of  the 
shack;  but  Maurice  had  only  a  fugitive  glimpse  of  this 
pathetic  figure  before  he,  too,  was  recumbent.  Four  boys 
flung  themselves  indignantly  upon  him  and  bore  him  to 
earth. 

"Hi!"  he  squealed.  "What  you  doin'?  Haven't  you  got 
any  sense?" 

And,  from  within  the  shack,  Roddy  added  his  own  pro- 
test. 

"Let  me  up,  can't  you?"  he  cried.  "I  got  to  see  what's 
goin'  on  out  there,  haven't  I?  I  guess  I'm  not  goin'  to  lay 
here  all  day!  What  you  think  I'm  made  of?" 

"You  hush  up !"  Penrod  commanded.  "This  is  a  nice  biz- 
miss!"  he  continued,  deeply  aggrieved.  "What  kind  of  a 
'nishiation  do  you  expect  this  is,  anyhow?" 

"Well,  here's  Maurice  Levy  gone  and  seen  part  of  the 
secrets,"  said  Sam,  in  a  voice  of  equal  plaintiveness.  "Yes; 
and  I  bet  he  was  listenin'  out  here,  too !" 

"Lemme  up!"  begged  Maurice,  half  stifled.  "I  didn't  do 
any  harm  to  your  old  secrets,  did  I?  Anyways,  I  just  as  soon 
be  'nishiated  myself.  I  ain't  afraid.  So  if  you  'nishiate  me, 
what  difference  will  it  make  if  I  did  hear  a  little?" 

Struck  with  this  idea,  which  seemed  reasonable,  Penrod 
obtained  silence  from  every  one  except  Roddy,  and  it  was 
decided  to  allow  Maurice  to  rise  and  retire  to  the  front 
yard.  The  brother  members  then  withdrew  within  the  shack, 
elected  Maurice  to  the  fellowship,  and  completed  the  initia- 
tion of  Mr.  Bitts.  After  that,  Maurice  was  summoned  and 
underwent  the  ordeal  with  fortitude,  though  the  newest 
brother — still  tingling  with  his  own  experiences — helped 
to  make  certain  parts  of  the  rixual  unprecedentedly  severe. 

Once  endowed  with  full  membership,  Maurice  and  Roddy 
accepted  the  obligations  and  privileges  of  the  order  with 
enthusiasm.  Both  interested  themselves  immediately  in  im- 

28 


provements  for  the  shack,  and  made  excursions  to  their 
homes  to  obtain  materials.  Roddy  returned  with  a  pair  of 
lensless  mother-of-pearl  opera-glasses,  a  contribution  that 
led  to  the  creation  of  a  new  office,  called  the  "warner".  It 
was  his  duty  to  climb  upon  the  back  fence  once  every  fif- 
teen minutes  and  search  the  horizon  for  intruders  or  "any- 
body that  hasn't  got  any  biznuss  around  here."  This  post 
proved  so  popular,  at  first,  that  it  was  found  necessary  to 
provide  for  rotation  in  office,  and  to  shorten  the  interval 
from  fifteen  minutes  to  an  indefinite  but  much  briefer 
period,  determined  principally  by  argument  between  the 
incumbent  and  his  successor. 

And  Maurice  Levy  contributed  a  device  so  pleasant,  and 
so  necessary  to  the  prevention  of  interruption  during  meet- 
ings, that  Penrod  and  Sam  wondered  why  they  had  not 
thought  of  it  themselves  long  before.  It  consisted  of  about 
twenty-five  feet  of  garden  hose  in  fair  condition.  One  end 
of  it  was  introduced  into  the  shack  through  a  knothole,  and 
the  other  was  secured  by  wire  round  the  faucet  of  hydrant 
in  the  stable.  Thus,  if  members  of  the  order  were  assailed 
by  thirst  during  an  important  session,  or  in  the  course  of 
an  initiation,  it  would  not  be  necessary  for  them  all  to  leave 
the  shack.  One  could  go,  instead,  and  when  he  had  turned 
on  the  water  at  the  hydrant,  the  members  in  the  shack  could 
drink  without  leaving  their  places.  It  was  discovered,  also, 
that  the  section  of  hose  could  be  used  as  a  speaking-tube; 
and  though  it  did  prove  necessary  to  explain  by  shouting 
outside  the  tube  what  one  had  said  into  it,  still  there  was  a 
general  feeling  that  it  provided  another  means  of  secrecy 
and  an  additional  safeguard  against  intrusion.  It  is  true 
that  during  the  half -hour  immediately  following  the  instal- 
lation of  this  convenience,  there  was  a  little  violence  among 
the  brothers  concerning  a  question  of  policy.  Sam,  Roddy 
and  Verman — Verman  especially — wished  to  use  the  tube 
"to  talk  through"  and  Maurice,  Penrod  and  Herman 
wished  to  use  it  "to  drink  through."  As  a  consequence  of 
the  success  of  the  latter  party,  the  shack  became  too  damp 

29 


for  habitation  until  another  day,  and  several  members,  as 
they  went  home  at  dusk,  might  easily  have  been  mistaken 
for  survivors  of  some  marine  catastrophe. 

Still,  not  every  shack  is  equipped  with  running  water, 
and  exuberance  befitted  the  occasion.  Everybody  agreed 
that  the  afternoon  had  been  one  of  the  most  successful  and 
important  in  many  weeks.  The  Order  of  the  In-Or-In  was 
doing  splendidly,  and  yet  every  brother  felt,  in  his  heart, 
that  there  was  one  thing  that  could  spoil  it.  Against  that 
fatality,  all  were  united  to  protect  themselves,  the  shack, 
the  rixual,  the  opera-glasses  and  the  water-and-speaking 
tube.  Sam  spoke  not  only  for  himself  but  for  the  entire 
order  when  he  declared,  in  speeding  the  last  parting  guest: 

"Well,  we  got  to  stick  to  one  thing  or  we  might  as  well 
quit!  Georgle  Bassett  better  not  come  pokin'  around!" 

"No,  sir!"  said  Penrod. 


30 


GEORGIE   BECOMES   A   MEMBER 

BUT  Georgie  did.  It  is  difficult  to  imagine  how  cause 
and  effect  could  be  more  closely  and  patently  re- 
lated. Inevitably,  Georgie  did  come  poking  around. 
How  was  he  to  refrain  when  daily,  up  and  down  the  neigh- 
bourhood, the  brothers  strutted  with  mystic  and  important 
airs,  when  they  whispered  together  and  uttered  words  of 
strange  import  in  his  presence?  Thus  did  they  defeat  their 
own  object.  They  desired  to  keep  Georgie  at  a  distance,  yet 
they  could  not  refrain  from  posing  before  him.  They  wished 
to  impress  upon  him  the  fact  that  he  was  an  outsider,  and 
they  but  succeeded  in  rousing  his  desire  to  be  an  insider, 
a  desire  that  soon  became  a  determination.  For  few  were 

31 


the  days  until  he  not  only  knew  of  the  shack  but  had 
actually  paid  it  a  visit.  That  was  upon  a  morning  when 
the  other  boys  were  in  school,  Georgie  having  found  him- 
self indisposed  until  about  ten  o'clock,  when  he  was  able  to 
take  nourishment  and  subsequently  to  interest  himself  in 
this  rather  private  errand.  He  climbed  the  Williams'  alley 
fence,  and,  having  made  a  modest  investigation  of  the  ex- 
terior of  the  shack,  which  was  padlocked,  retired  without 
having  disturbed  anything  except  his  own  peace  of  mind, 
His  curiosity,  merely  piqued  before,  now  became  ravenous 
and  painful.  It  was  not  allayed  by  the  mystic  manners  of 
the  members  or  by  the  unnecessary  emphasis  they  laid  upon 
their  coldness  toward  himself;  and  when  a  committee  in- 
formed him  darkly  that  there  were  "secret  orders"  to  pre- 
vent his  coming  within  "a  hundred  and  sixteen  feet" — such 
was  Penrod's  arbitrary  language — of  the  Williams'  yard, 
"in  any  direction",  Georgie  could  bear  it  no  longer,  but 
entered  his  own  house,  and,  in  burning  words,  laid  the 
case  before  a  woman  higher  up.  Here  the  responsibility  for 
things  is  directly  traceable  to  grown  people.  Within  that 
hour,  Mrs.  Bassett  sat  in  Mrs.  Williams's  library  to  ad- 
dress her  hostess  upon  the  subject  of  Georgie's  grievance. 

"Of  course,  it  isn't  Sam's  fault,"  she  said,  concluding 
her  interpretation  of  the  affair.  "Georgie  likes  Sam,  and 
didn't  blame  him  at  all.  No ;  we  both  felt  that  Sam  would 
always  be  a  polite,  nice  boy — Georgie  used  those  very 
words — but  Penrod  seems  to  have  a  very  bad  influence. 
Georgie  felt  that  Sam  would  want  him  to  come  and  play  in 
the  shack  if  Penrod  didn't  make  Sam  do  everything  he 
wants.  What  hurt  Georgie  most  is  that  it's  Sam's  shack, 
and  he  felt  for  another  boy  to  come  and  tell  him  that  he 
mustn't  even  go  near  it — well,  of  course,  it  was  very  trying. 
And  he's  very  much  hurt  with  little  Maurice  Levy,  too.  He 
said  that  he  was  sure  that  even  Penrod  would  be  glad  to 
have  him  for  a  member  of  their  little  club  if  it  weren't  for 
Maurice — and  I  think  he  spoke  of  Roddy  Bitts,  too." 

The  fact  that  the  two  remaining  members  were  coloured 

32 


was  omitted  from  this  discourse — which  leads  to  the  deduc- 
tion that  Georgie  had  not  mentioned  it. 

"Georgie  said  all  the  other  boys  liked  him  very  much," 
Mrs.  Bassett  continued,  "and  that  he  felt  it  his  duty  to 
join  the  club,  because  most  of  them  were  so  anxious  to  have 
him,  and  he  is  sure  he  would  have  a  good  influence  over 
them.  He  really  did  speak  of  it  in  quite  a  touching  way, 
Mrs.  Williams.  Of  course,  we  mothers  mustn't  brag  of  our 
sons  too  much,  but  Georgie  really  isn't  like  other  boys.  He 
is  so  sensitive,  you  can't  think  how  this  little  affair  has  hurt 
him,  and  I  felt  that  it  might  even  make  him  ill.  You  see,  I 
had  to  respect  his  reason  for  wanting  to  join  the  club.  And  if 
I  am  his  mother" — she  gave  a  deprecating  little  laugh — "I 
must  say  that  it  seems  noble  to  want  to  join  not  really  for 
his  own  sake  but  for  the  good  that  he  felt  his  influence 
would  have  over  the  other  boys.  Don't  you  think  so,  Mrs. 
Williams?" 

Mrs.  Williams  said  that  she  did,  indeed.  And  the  result 
of  this  interview  was  another,  which  took  place  between 
Sam  and  his  father  that  evening,  for  Mrs.  Williams,  after 
talking  to  Sam  herself,  felt  that  the  matter  needed  a  man 
to  deal  with  it.  The  man  did  it  man-fashion. 

"You  either  invite  Georgie  Bassett  to  play  in  the  shack 
all  he  wants  to,"  the  man  said,  "or  the  shack  comes  down." 

"But " 

"Take  your  choice.  I'm  not  going  to  have  neighbourhood 
quarrels  over  such " 

"But,  Papa " 

"That's  enough !  You  said  yourself  you  haven't  anything 
against  Georgie." 

"I  said » 

"You  said  you  didn't  like  him,  but  you  couldn't  tell  why. 
You  couldn't  state  a  single  instance  of  bad  behaviour 
against  him.  You  couldn't  mention  anything  he  ever  did 
which  wasn't  what  a  gentleman  should  have  done.  It's  no 
use,  I  tell  you.  Either  you  invite  Georgie  to  play  in  the 

33 


shack  as  much  as  he  likes  next  Saturday,  or  the  shack 
comes  down." 

"But,  Papa " 

"I'm  not  going  to  talk  any  more  about  it.  If  you  want 
the  shack  pulled  down  and  hauled  away,  you  and  your 
friends  continue  to  tantalize  this  inoffensive  little  boy  the 
way  you  have  been.  If  you  want  to  keep  it,  be  polite  and 
invite  him  in." 

«But " 

"That's  ALL,  I  said!" 

Sam  was  crushed. 

Next  day  he  communicated  the  bitter  substance  of  the 
edict  to  the  other  members,  and  gloom  became  unanimous. 
So  serious  an  aspect  did  the  affair  present  that  it  was  felt 
necessary  to  call  a  special  meeting  of  the  order  after  school. 
The  entire  membership  was  in  attendance;  the  door  was 
closed,  the  window  covered  with  a  board,  and  the  candle 
lighted.  Then  all  of  the  brothers — expect  one — began  to  ex- 
press their  sorrowful  apprehensions.  The  whole  thing  was 
spoiled,  they  agreed,  if  Georgie  Bassett  had  to  be  taken  in. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  they  didn't  take  him  in,  "there 
wouldn't  be  anything  left."  The  one  brother  who  failed  to 
express  any  opinion  was  little  Verman.  He  was  otherwise 
occupied. 

Verman  had  been  the  official  paddler  during  the  initia- 
tions of  Roddy  Bitts  and  Maurice  Levy ;  his  work  had  been 
conscientious,  and  it  seemed  to  be  taken  by  consent  that  he 
was  to  continue  in  office.  An  old  shingle  from  the  wood- 
shed roof  had  been  used  for  the  exercise  of  his  function  in 
the  cases  of  Roddy  and  Maurice;  but  this  afternoon  he 
had  brought  with  him  a  new  one  that  he  had  picked  up 
somewhere.  It  was  broader  and  thicker  than  the  old  one, 
and,  during  the  melancholy  prophecies  of  his  fellows,  he 
whittled  the  lesser  end  of  it  to  the  likeness  of  a  handle.  Thus 
engaged,  he  bore  no  appearance  of  despondency;  on  the 
contrary,  his  eyes,  shining  brightly  in  the  candlelight,  in- 
dicated that  eager  thoughts  possessed  him,  while  from  time 

34 


to  time  the  sound  of  a  chuckle  issued  from  his  simple 
African  throat.  Gradually  the  other  brothers  began  to 
notice  his  preoccupation,  and  one  by  one  they  fell  silent, 
regarding  him  thoughtfully.  Slowly  the  darkness  of  their 
countenances  lifted  a  little ;  something  happier  and  brighter 
began  to  glimmer  from  each  boyish  face.  All  eyes  remained 
fascinated  upon  Verman. 

"Well,  anyway,"  said  Penrod,  in  a  tone  that  was  almost 
cheerful,  "this  is  only  Tuesday.  We  got  pretty  near  all 
week  to  fix  up  the  'nishiation  for  Saturday." 

And  Saturday  brought  sunshine  to  make  the  occasion 
more  tolerable  for  both  the  candidate  and  the  society.  Mrs. 
Williams,  going  to  the  window  to  watch  Sam  when  he  left 
the  house  after  lunch,  marked  with  pleasure  that  his  look 
and  manner  were  sprightly  as  he  skipped  down  the  walk  to 
the  front  gate.  There  he  paused  and  yodelled  for  a  time. 
An  answering  yodel  came  presently;  Penrod  Schofield  ap- 
peared, and  by  his  side  walked  Georgie  Bassett.  Georgie 
was  always  neat;  but  Mrs.  Williams  noticed  that  he  ex- 
hibited unusual  gloss  and  polish  to-day.  As  for  his  expres- 
sion, it  was  a  shade  too  complacent  under  the  circumstances, 
though,  for  that  matter,  perfect  tact  avoids  an  air  of 
triumph  under  any  circumstances.  Mrs.  Williams  was 
pleased  to  observe  that  Sam  and  Penrod  betrayed  no  resent- 
ment whatever;  they  seemed  to  have  accepted  defeat  in  a 
good  spirit  and  to  be  inclined  to  make  the  best  of  Georgie. 
Indeed,  they  appeared  to  be  genuinely  excited  about  him — 
it  was  evident  that  their  cordiality  was  eager  and  whole- 
hearted. 

The  three  boys  conferred  for  a  few  moments;  then  Sam 
disappeared  round  the  house  and  returned,  waving  his  hand 
and  nodding.  Upon  that,  Penrod  took  Georgie's  left  arm, 
Sam  took  his  right,  and  the  three  marched  off  to  the  back- 
yard in  a  companionable  way  that  made  Mrs.  Williams 
feel  it  had  been  an  excellent  thing  to  interfere  a  little  in 
Georgie's  interest. 

Experiencing  the  benevolent  warmth  that  comes  of  assist- 

35 


ing  in  a  good  action,  she  ascended  to  an  apartment  up- 
stairs, and,  for  a  couple  of  hours,  employed  herself  with 
needle  and  thread  in  sartorial  repairs  on  behalf  of  her 
husband  and  Sam.  Then  she  was  interrupted  by  the  advent 
of  a  coloured  serving-maid. 

"Miz  Williams,  I  reckon  the  house  goin'  fall  down !"  this 
pessimist  said,  arriving  out  of  breath.  "That  s'iety  o'  Mist' 
Sam's  suttenly  tryin'  to  pull  the  roof  down  on  ow  haids !" 

"The  roof?"  Mrs.  Williams  inquired  mildly.  "They 
aren't  in  the  attic,  are  they?" 

"No'm ;  they  in  the  celluh ;  but  they  reachin*  f  er  the  roof ! 
I  nev'  did  hear  no  sech  a  rumpus  an'  squawkin'  an'  squawl- 
in'  an9  fallin'  an'  whcopin'  an'  whackin'  an'  bangin'!  They 
troop  down  by  the  outside  celluh  do',  n'en — bang! — they 
bus'  loose,  an'  been  goin'  on  ev'  since,  wuss'n  Bedlun!  Ef 
they  anything  down  celluh  ain'  broke  by  this  time,  it  cain' 
be  only  jes'  the  foundashum,  an'  I  bet  that  ain'  goin'  stan' 
much  longer !  I'd  gone  down  an'  stop  'em,  but  I'm  'f  raid  to. 
Hones',  Miz  Williams,  I'm  'fraid  o'  my  life  go  down  there, 
all  that  Bedlun  goin'  on.  I  thought  I  come  see  what  you 
say." 

Mrs.  Williams  laughed. 

"We  have  to  stand  a  little  noise  in  the  house  sometimes, 
Fanny,  when  there  are  boys.  They're  just  playing,  and  a 
lot  of  noise  is  usually  a  pretty  safe  sign." 

"Yes'm,"  Fanny  said.  "It's  yo'  house,  Miz  Williams,  not 
mine.  You  want  'em  tear  it  down,  I'm  willin'." 

She  departed,  and  Mrs.  Williams  continued  to  sew.  The 
days  were  growing  short,  and  at  five  o'clock  she  was  obliged 
to  put  the  work  aside,  as  her  eyes  did  not  permit  her  to 
continue  it  by  artificial  light.  Descending  to  the  lower  floor, 
she  found  the  house  silent,  and  when  she  opened  the  front 
door  to  see  if  the  evening  paper  had  come,  she  beheld  Sam, 
Penrod  and  Maurice  Levy  standing  near  the  gate  engaged 
in  quiet  conversation.  Penrod  and  Maurice  departed  while 
she  was  looking  for  the  paper,  and  Sam  came  thoughtfully 
up  the  walk. 

36 


"Well,  Sam,"  she  said,  "it  wasn't  such  a  bad  thing,  after 
all,  to  show  a  little  politeness  to  Georgie  Bassett,  was  it?" 

Sam  gave  her  a  non-committal  look — expression  of  every 
kind  had  been  wiped  from  his  countenance.  He  presented  a 
blank  surface. 

"No'm,"  he  said  meekly. 

"Everything  was  just  a  little  pleasanter  because  you'd 
been  friendly,  wasn't  it?" 

"Yes'm." 

"Has  Georgie  gone  home?" 

"Yes'm." 

"I  hear  you  made  enough  noise  in  the  cellar Did 

Georgie  have  a  good  time  ?" 

"Ma'am?" 

"Did  Georgie  Bassett  have  a  good  time?" 

"Well" — Sam  now  had  the  air  of  a  person  trying  to 
remember  details  with  absolute  accuracy — "well,  he  didn't 
say  he  did,  and  he  didn't  say  he  didn't." 

"Didn't  he  thank  the  boys?" 

"No'm." 

"Didn't  he  even  thank  you?" 

"No'm." 

"Why,  that's  queer,"  she  said.  "He's  always  so  polite. 
He  seemed  to  be  having  a  good  time,  didn't  he,  Sam?" 

"Ma'am?" 

"Didn't  Georgie  seem  to  be  enjoying  himself?" 

This  question,  apparently  so  simple,  was  not  answered 
with  promptness.  Sam  looked  at  his  mother  in  a  puzzled 
way,  and  then  he  found  it  necessary  to  rub  each  of  his  shins 
in  turn  with  the  palm  of  his  right  hand. 

"I  stumbled,"  he  said  apologetically.  "I  stumbled  on  the 
cellar  steps." 

"Did  you  hurt  yourself?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"No'm ;  but  I  guess  maybe  I  better  rub  some  arnica " 

"I'll  get  it,"  she  said.  "Come  up  to  your  father's  bath- 
room, Sam.  Does  it  hurt  much?" 

"No'm,"  he  answered  truthfully,  "it  hardly  hurts  at  all." 

37 


And  having  followed  her  to  the  bathroom,  he  insisted, 
with  unusual  gentleness,  that  he  be  left  to  apply  the  arnica 
to  the  alleged  injuries  himself.  He  was  so  persuasive  that 
she  yielded,  and  descended  to  the  library,  where  she  found 
her  husband  once  more  at  home  after  his  day's  work. 

"Well?"  he  said.  "Did  Georgie  show  up,  and  were  they 
decent  to  him?" 

"Oh,  yes;  it's  all  right.  Sam  and  Penrod  were  good  as 
gold.  I  saw  them  being  actually  cordial  to  him." 

"That's  well,"  Mr.  Williams  said,  settling  into  a  chair 
with  his  paper.  "I  was  a  little  apprehensive,  but  I  suppose  I 
was  mistaken.  I  walked  home,  and  just  now,  as  I  passed 
Mrs.  Bassett's,  I  saw  Doctor  Venny's  car  in  front,  and 
that  barber  from  the  corner  shop  on  Second  Street  was  go- 
ing in  the  door.  I  couldn't  think  what  a  widow  would  need 
a  barber  and  a  doctor  for — especially  at  the  same  time.  I 
couldn't  think  what  Georgie'd  need  such  a  combination  for 
either,  and  then  I  got  afraid  that  maybe " 

Mrs.  Williams  laughed.  "Oh,  no;  it  hasn't  anything  to 
do  with  his  having  been  over  here.  I'm  sure  they  were  very 
nice  to  him." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  of  that." 

"Yes,  indeed "  Mrs.  Williams  began,  when  Fanny 

appeared,  summoning  her  to  the  telephone. 

It  is  pathetically  true  that  Mrs.  Williams  went  to  the 
telephone  humming  a  little  song.  She  was  detained  at  the 
instrument  not  more  than  five  minutes;  then  she  made  a 
plunging  return  into  the  library,  a  blanched  and  stricken 
woman.  She  made  strange,  sinister  gestures  at  her  husband. 

He  sprang  up,  miserably  prophetic.  "Mrs.  Bassett?" 

"Go  to  the  telephone,"  Mrs.  Williams  said  hoarsely.  "She 
wants  to  talk  to  you,  too.  She  can't  talk  much — she's 
hysterical.  She  says  they  lured  Georgie  into  the  cellar  and 
had  him  beaten  by  negroes !  That's  not  all " 

Mr.  Williams  was  already  on  his  way.  "You  find  Sam!" 
he  commanded,  over  his  shoulder. 

Mrs.  Williams  stepped  into  the  front  hall.  "Sam!"  she 


called,  addressing  the  upper  reaches  of  the  stairway. 
"Sam!" 

Not  even  echo  answered. 

"Sam!" 

A  faint  clearing  of  somebody's  throat  was  heard  behind 
her,  a  sound  so  modest  and  unobtrusive  it  was  no  more  than 
just  audible,  and,  turning,  the  mother  beheld  her  son  sit- 
ting upon  the  floor  in  the  shadow  of  the  stairs  and  gazing 
meditatively  at  the  hatrack.  His  manner  indicated  that  he 
wished  to  produce  the  impression  that  he  had  been  sitting 
there,  in  this  somewhat  unusual  place  and  occupation,  for 
a  considerable  time,  but  without  overhearing  anything  that 
went  on  in  the  library  so  close  by. 

"Sam,"  she  cried,  "what  have  you  done?" 

"Well — I  guess  my  legs  are  all  right,"  he  said  gently. 
"I  got  the  arnica  on,  so  probably  they  won't  hurt  any 
m " 

"Stand  up!"  she  said. 

"Ma'am?" 

"March  into  the  library!" 

Sam  marched — slow-time.  In  fact,  no  funeral  march  has 
been  composed  in  a  time  so  slow  as  to  suit  this  march  of 
Sam's.  One  might  have  suspected  that  he  was  in  a  state  of 
apprehension. 

Mr.  Williams  entered  at  one  door  as  his  son  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  other,  and  this  encounter  was  a  piteous 
sight.  After  one  glance  at  his  father's  face,  Sam  turned  des- 
perately, as  if  to  flee  outright.  But  Mrs.  Williams  stood 
in  the  doorway  behind  him. 

"You  come  here!"  And  the  father's  voice  was  as  terrible 
as  his  face.  "What  did  you  do  to  Georgie  Bassett?" 

"Nothin',"  Sam  gulped;  "nothin'  at  all." 

"What!" 

"We  just — we  just  'nishiated  him." 

Mr.  Williams  turned  abruptly,  walked  to  the  fireplace, 
and  there  turned  again,  facing  the  wretched  Sam.  "That's 
all  you  did?" 

39 


"Yes,  sir." 

"Georgie  Bassett's  mother  has  just  told  me  over  the  tele- 
phone," Mr.  Williams  said,  deliberately,  "that  you  and 
Penrod  Schofield  and  Roderick  Bitts  and  Maurice  Levy 
lured  Georgie  into  the  cellar  and  had  him  beaten  by 
negroes!" 

At  this,  Sam  was  able  to  hold  up  his  head  a  little  and  to 
summon  a  rather  feeble  indignation. 

"It  ain't  so,"  he  declared.  "We  didn't  any  such  thing 
lower  him  into  the  cellar.  We  weren't  goin'  near  the  cellar 
with  him.  We  never  thought  of  goin'  down  cellar.  He  went 
down  there  himself,  first." 

"So!  I  suppose  he  was  running  away  from  you,  poor 
thing!  Trying  to  escape  from  you,  wasn't  he?" 

"He  wasn't,"  Sam  said  doggedly.  "We  weren't  chasin' 
him — or  anything  at  all." 

"Then  why  did  he  go  in  the  cellar?" 

"Well,  he  didn't  exactly  go  in  the  cellar,"  Sam  said  re- 
luctantly. 

"Well,  how  did  he  get  in  the  cellar,  then?" 

"He— he  fell  in,"  said  Sam. 

"How  did  he  fall  in?" 

"Well,  the  door  was  open,  and — well,  he  kept  walkin* 
around  there,  and  we  hollered  at  him  to  keep  away,  but  just 
then  he  kind  of — well,  the  first  I  noticed  was  I  couldn't  see 
him,  and  so  we  went  and  looked  down  the  steps,  and  he  was 
sitting  down  there  on  the  bottom  step  and  kind  of  shouting, 
and " 

"See  here !"  Mr.  Williams  interrupted.  "You're  going  to 
make  a  clean  breast  of  this  whole  affair  and  take  the  conse- 
quences. You're  going  to  tell  it  and  tell  it  all.  Do  you  under- 
stand that?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Then  you  tell  me  how  Georgie  Bassett  fell  down  the 
cellar  steps — and  tell  me  quick !" 

"He— he  was  blindfolded." 

"Aha!  Now  we're  getting  at  it.  You  begin  at  the  begin- 

40 


ning  and  tell  me  just  what  you  did  to  him  from  the  time  he 
got  here.  Understand?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Go  on,  then!" 

"Well,  I'm  goin'  to,"  Sam  protested.  "We  never  hurt 
him  at  all.  He  wasn't  even  hurt  when  he  fell  down  cellar. 
There's  a  lot  of  mud  down  there,  because  the  cellar  door 
leaks,  and " 

"Sam!"  Mr.  Williams's  tone  was  deadly.  "Did  you  hear 
me  tell  you  to  begin  at  the  beginning?" 

Sam  made  a  great  effort  and  was  able  to  obey. 

"Well,  we  had  everything  ready  for  the  'nishiation  be- 
fore lunch,"  he  said.  "We  wanted  it  all  to  be  nice,  because 
you  said  we  had  to  have  him,  Papa,  and  after  lunch  Pen- 
rod  went  to  guard  him — that's  a  new  part  in  the  rixual — 
and  he  brought  him  over,  and  we  took  him  out  to  the  shack 
and  blindfolded  him,  and — well,  he  got  kind  of  mad  because 
we  wanted  him  to  lay  down  on  his  stummick  and  be  tied 
up,  and  he  said  he  wouldn't,  because  the  floor  was  *v  little 
bit  wet  in  there  and  he  could  feel  it  sort  of  squashy  under 
his  shoes,  and  he  said  his  mother  didn't  want  him  ever  to 
get  dirty  and  he  just  wouldn't  do  it;  and  we  aU  kept  telling 
him  he  had  to,  or  else  how  could  there  be  any  'nishiation; 
and  he  kept  gettin'  madder  and  said  he  wanted  to  have 
the  'nishiation  outdoors  where  it  wasn't  wet  and  he  wasn't 
goin'  to  lay  down  on  his  stummick,  anyway."  Sam  paused 
for  wind,  then  got  under  way  again.  "Well,  some  of  the 
boys  were  tryin'  to  get  him  to  lay  down  on  his  stummick, 
and  he  kind  of  fell  up  against  the  door  and  it  came  open 
and  he  ran  out  in  the  yard.  He  was  tryin'  to  get  the  blind- 
fold off  his  eyes,  but  he  couldn't  because  it  was  a  towel  in 
a  pretty  hard  knot;  and  he  went  tearin'  all  around  the 
backyard,  and  we  didn't  chase  him,  or  anything.  All  we 
did  was  just  watch  him — and  that's  when  he  fell  in  the  cel- 
lar. Well,  it  didn't  hurt  him  any.  It  didn't  hurt  him  at  all; 
but  he  was  muddier  than  what  he  would  of  been  if  he'd  just 
had  sense  enough  to  lay  down  in  the  shack.  Well,  so  we 

41 


thought,  long  as  he  was  down  in  the  cellar  anyway,  we  might 
as  well  have  the  rest  of  the  'nishiation  down  there.  So  we 
brought  the  things  down  and — and  'nishiated  him — and 
that's  all.  That's  every  bit  we  did  to  him." 

"Yes,"  Mr.  Williams  said  sardonically;  "I  see.  What 
were  the  details  of  the  initiation?" 

"Sir?" 

"I  want  to  know  what  else  you  did  to  him?  What  was 
the  initiation?" 

"It's — it's  secret,"  Sam  murmured  piteously. 

"Not  any  longer,  I  assure  you !  The  society  is  a  thing  of 
the  past  and  you'll  find  your  friend  Penrod's  parents  agree 
with  me  in  that.  Mrs.  Bassett  had  already  telephoned  them 
when  she  called  us  up.  You  go  on  with  your  story !" 

Sam  sighed  deeply,  and  yet  it  may  have  been  a  consola- 
tion to  know  that  his  present  misery  was  not  altogether 
without  its  counterpart.  Through  the  falling  dusk  his  spirit 
may  have  crossed  the  intervening  distance  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  his  friend  suffering  simultaneously  and  standing 
within  the  same  peril.  And  if  Sam's  spirit  did  thus  behold 
Penrod  in  jeopardy,  it  was  a  true  vision. 

"Go  on!"  Mr.  Williams  said. 

"Well,  there  wasn't  any  fire  in  the  furnace  because  it's 
too  warm  yet,  and  we  weren't  goin'  to  do  anything'd  hurt 
him,  so  we  put  him  in  there " 

"In  the  furnace?" 

"It  was  cold,"  Sam  protested.  "There  hadn't  been  any 
fire  there  since  last  spring.  Course  we  told  him  there  was 
fire  in  it.  We  had  to  do  that,"  he  continued  earnestly,  "be- 
cause that  was  part  of  the  'nishiation.  We  only  kept  him  in 
it  a  little  while  and  kind  of  hammered  on  the  outside  a  little 
and  then  we  took  him  out  and  got  him  to  lay  down  on  his 
stummick,  because  he  was  all  muddy  anyway,  where  he  fell 
down  the  cellar;  and  how  could  it  matter  to  anybody  that 
had  any  sense  at  all?  Well,  then  we  had  the  rixual,  and — 
and — why,  the  teeny  little  paddlin'  he  got  wouldn't  hurt  a 
flea!  It  was  that  little  coloured  boy  lives  in  the  alley  did  it 


— he  isn't  anyways  near  half  Georgie's  size — but  Georgie 
got  mad  and  said  he  didn't  want  any  ole  nigger  to  paddle 
him.  That's  what  he  said,  and  it  was  his  own  foolishness, 
because  Verman  won't  let  anybody  call  him  'nigger',  and  if 
Georgie  was  goin'  to  call  him  that  he  ought  to  had  sense 
enough  not  to  do  it  when  he  was  layin'  down  that  way  and 
Verman  all  ready  to  be  the  paddler.  And  he  needn't  of  been 
so  mad  at  the  rest  of  us,  either,  because  it  took  us  about 
twenty  minutes  to  get  the  paddle  away  from  Verman  after 
that,  and  we  had  to  lock  Verman  up  in  the  laundry-room 
and  not  let  him  out  till  it  was  all  over.  Well,  and  then  things 
were  kind  of  spoiled,  anyway;  so  we  didn't  do  but  just  a 
little  more — and  that's  all." 

"Go  on!  What  was  the  'just  a  little  more'?" 

"Well — we  got  him  to  swaller  a  little  teeny  bit  of  asafi- 
dity.  It  wasn't  enough  to  even  make  a  person  sneeze — it 
wasn't  much  more'n  a  half  a  spoonful — it  wasn't  hardly  a 
quarter  of  a  spoon f " 

"Ha!"  said  Mr.  Williams.  "That  accounts  for  the  doc- 
tor. What  else?" 

"Well — we — we  had  some  paint  left  over  from  our  flag, 
and  we  put  just  a  little  teeny  bit  of  it  on  his  hair  and— 

"Ha!"  said  Mr.  Williams.  "That  accounts  for  the  bar- 
ber. What  else?" 

"That's  all,"  Sam  said,  swallowing.  "Then  he  got  mad  and 
went  home." 

Mr.  Williams  walked  to  the  door,  and  sternly  motioned 
to  the  culprit  to  precede  him  through  it.  But  just  before 
the  pair  passed  from  her  sight,  Mrs.  Williams  gave  way  to 
an  uncontrollable  impulse. 

"Sam,"  she  asked,  "what  does  'In-Or-In'  stand  for?" 

The  unfortunate  boy  had  begun  to  sniffle. 

"It — it  means — Innapenent  Order  of  Infadelaty,"  he 
moaned — and  plodded  onward  to  his  doom. 

Not  his  alone:  at  that  very  moment  Master  Roderick 
Magsworth  Bitts,  Junior,  was  suffering  also,  consequent 
upon  telephoning  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Bassett,  though  Rod- 

43 


crick's  punishment  was  administered  less  on  the  ground 
of  Georgie's  troubles  and  more  on  that  of  Roddy's  having 
affiliated  with  an  order  consisting  so  largely  of  Herman 
and  Verman.  As  for  Maurice  Levy,  he  was  no  whit  less 
unhappy.  He  fared  as  ill. 

Simultaneously,  two  ex-members  of  the  In-Or-In  were 
finding  their  lot  fortunate.  Something  had  prompted  them 
to  linger  in  the  alley  in  the  vicinity  of  the  shack,  and  it 
was  to  this  fated  edifice  that  Mr.  Williams,  with  demoniac 
justice,  brought  Sam  for  the  deed  he  had  in  mind. 

Herman  and  Verman  listened — awe-stricken — to  what 
went  on  within  the  shack.  Then,  before  it  was  over,  they 
crept  away  and  down  the  alley  toward  their  own  home.  This 
was  directly  across  the  alley  from  the  Schofields'  stable,  and 
they  were  horrified  at  the  sounds  that  issued  from  the  in- 
terior of  the  stable  store-room.  It  was  the  St.  Bartholomew's 
Eve  of  that  neighbourhood. 

"Man,  man!"  said  Herman,  shaking  his  head.  "Glad  I 
ain'  no  white  boy !" 

Yerman  seemed  gloomily  to  assent. 


44 


WHITEY 

PENROD  and  Sam  made  a  gloomy  discovery  one  morn- 
ing in  mid-October.  All  the  week  had  seen  amiable 
breezes  and  fair  skies  until  Saturday,  when,  about 
breakfast-time,  the  dome  of  heaven  filled  solidly  with  gray 
vapour  and  began  to  drip.  The  boys'  discovery  was  that 
there  is  no  justice  about  the  weather. 

They  sat  in  the  carriage-house  of  the  Schofields'  empty 
stable;  the  doors  upon  the  alley  were  open,  and  Sam  and 
Penrod  stared  torpidly  at  the  thin  but  implacable  drizzle 
that  was  the  more  irritating  because  there  was  barely 
enough  of  it  to  interfere  with  a  number  of  things  they  had 
planned  to  do. 

"Yes;  this  is  nice!"  Sam  said,  in  a  tone  of  plaintive  sar- 

45 


casm.  "This  is  a  perty  way  to  do !"  (He  was  alluding  to  the 
personal  spitefulness  of  the  elements.)  "I'd  like  to  know 
what's  the  sense  of  it — ole  sun  pourin'  down  every  day  in 
the  week  when  nobody  needs  it,  then  cloud  up  and  rain  all 
Saturday!  My  father  said  it's  goin'  to  be  a  three  days' 
rain." 

"Well,  nobody  with  any  sense  cares  if  it  rains  Sunday 
and  Monday,"  Penrod  said.  "I  wouldn't  care  if  it  rained 
every  Sunday  as  long  I  lived;  but  I  just  like  to  know  what's 
the  reason  it  had  to  go  and  rain  to-day.  Got  all  the  days  o' 
the  week  to  choose  from  and  goes  and  picks  on  Saturday. 
That's  a  fine  biz'nuss !" 

"Well,  in  vacation "  Sam  began ;  but  at  a  sound  from 

a  source  invisible  to  him  he  paused.  "What's  that?"  he  said, 
somewhat  startled. 

It  was  a  curious  sound,  loud  and  hollow  and  unhuman, 
yet  it  seemed  to  be  a  cough.  Both  boys  rose,  and  Penrod 
asked  uneasily:  "Where'd  that  noise  come  from?" 

"It's  in  the  alley,"  said  Sam. 

Perhaps  if  the  day  had  been  bright,  both  of  them  would 
have  stepped  immediately  to  the  alley  doors  to  investigate; 
but  their  actual  procedure  was  to  move  a  little  distance  in 
the  opposite  direction.  The  strange  cough  sounded  again. 

"Say!"  Penrod  quavered.  "What  is  that?" 

Then  both  boys  uttered  smothered  exclamations  and 
jumped,  for  the  long,  gaunt  head  that  appeared  in  the  door- 
way was  entirely  unexpected.  It  was  the  cavernous  and 
melancholy  head  of  an  incredibly  thin,  old,  whitish  horse. 
This  head  waggled  slowly  from  side  to  side;  the  nostrils 
vibrated;  the  mouth  opened,  and  the  hollow  cough  sounded 
again. 

Recovering  themselves,  Penrod  and  Sam  underwent  the 
customary  human  reaction  from  alarm  to  indignation. 

"What  you  want,  you  ole  horse,  you?"  Penrod  shouted. 
"Don't  you  come  coughin'  around  me!" 

And  Sam,  seizing  a  stick,  hurled  it  at  the  intruder. 

"Get  out  o'  here !"  he  roared. 

46 


The  aged  horse  nervously  withdrew  his  head,  turned  tail, 
and  made  a  rickety  flight  up  the  alley,  while  Sam  and  Pen- 
rod,  perfectly  obedient  to  inherited  impulse,  ran  out  into 
the  drizzle  and  uproariously  pursued.  They  were  but  auto- 
matons of  instinct,  meaning  no  evil.  Certainly  they  did  not 
know  the  singular  and  pathetic  history  of  the  old  horse  who 
wandered  into  the  alley  and  ventured  to  look  through  the 
open  door. 

This  horse,  about  twice  the  age  of  either  Penrod  or 
Sam,  had  lived  to  find  himself  in  a  unique  position.  He 
was  nude,  possessing  neither  harness  nor  halter;  all  he  had 
was  a  name,  Whitey,  and  he  would  have  answered  to  it  by 
a  slight  change  of  expression  if  any  one  had  thus  properly 
addressed  him.  So  forlorn  was  Whitey's  case,  he  was  actually 
an  independent  horse;  he  had  not  even  an  owner.  For  two 
days  and  a  half  he  had  been  his  own  master. 

Previous  to  that  period  he  had  been  the  property  of  one 
Abalene  Morris,  a  person  of  colour,  who  would  have  ex- 
plained himself  as  engaged  in  the  hauling  business.  On  the 
contrary,  the  hauling  business  was  an  insignificant  side 
line  with  Mr.  Morris,  for  he  had  long  ago  given  himself,  as 
utterly  as  fortune  permitted,  to  the  talent  that  early  in 
youth  he  had  recognized  as  the  greatest  of  all  those  surging 
in  his  bosom.  In  his  waking  thoughts  and  in  his  dreams,  in 
health  and  in  sickness,  Abalene  Morris  was  the  dashing  and 
emotional  practitioner  of  an  art  probably  more  than  Roman 
in  antiquity.  Abalene  was  a  crap-shooter.  The  hauling  busi- 
ness was  a  disguise. 

A  concentration  of  events  had  brought  it  about  that,  at 
one  and  the  same  time,  Abalene,  after  a  dazzling  run  of 
the  dice,  found  the  hauling  business  an  actual  danger  to 
the  preservation  of  his  liberty.  He  won  seventeen  dollars 
and  sixty  cents,  and  within  the  hour  found  himself  in 
trouble  with  an  officer  of  the  Humane  Society  on  account  of 
an  altercation  with  Whitey.  Abalene  had  been  offered  four 
dollars  for  Whitey  some  ten  days  earlier;  wherefore  he  at 


once  drove  to  the  shop  of  the  junk-dealer  who  had 
the  offer  and  announced  his  acquiescence  in  the  sacrifice. 

"No,  suh!"  the  junk-dealer  said,  with  emphasis,  "I  aw- 
ready  done  got  me  a  good  mule  f  er  my  deliv'ry  hoss,  'n'at 
ole  Whitey  hoss  ain'  wuff  no  fo'  dollah  nohow!  I  'uz  a  fool 
when  I  talk  'bout  th'owin'  money  roun'  that  a-way.  7  know 
what  you  up  to,  Abalene.  Man  come  by  here  li'l  bit  ago  tole 
me  all  'bout  white  man  try  to  'rest  you,  ovah  on  the 
awynoo.  Yessuh ;  he  say  white  man  goin'  to  git  you  yit  an' 
th'ow  you  in  jail  'count  o'  Whitey.  White  man  tryin'  to 
fine  out  who  you  is.  He  say,  nemmine,  he'll  know  Whitey 
ag'in,  even  if  he  don'  know  you !  He  say  he  ketch  you  by  the 
hoss;  so  you  come  roun'  tryin'  fix  me  up  with  Whitey  so 
white  man  grab  me,  th'ow  me  in  'at  jail.  G'on  'way  f'um 
hyuh,  you  Abalene !  You  cain'  sell  an'  you  cain'  give  Whitey 
to  no  cullud  man  'n  'is  town.  You  go  an'  drowned  'at  ole 
hoss,  'cause  you  sutny  goin'  to  jail  if  you  git  ketched  driv- 
in'  him." 

The  substance  of  this  advice  seemed  good  to  Abalene, 
especially  as  the  seventeen  dollars  and  sixty  cents  in  his 
pocket  lent  sweet  colours  to  life  out  of  jail  at  this  time. 
At  dusk  he  led  Whitey  to  a  broad  common  at  the  edge  of 
town,  and  spoke  to  him  finally. 

"G'on  'bout  you  biz'nis,"  said  Abalene;  "you  ain'  my 
hoss.  Don'  look  roun'  at  me,  'cause  /  ain't  got  no  'quaintance 
wif  you.  I'm  a  man  o'  money,  an'  I  got  my  own  f rien's ;  I'm 
a-lookin'  fer  bigger  cities,  hoss.  You  got  you  biz'nis  an'  I 
got  mine.  Mista'  Hoss,  good-night!" 

Whitey  found  a  little  frosted  grass  upon  the  common 
and  remained  there  all  night.  In  the  morning  he  sought  the 
shed  where  Abalene  had  kept  him;  but  that  was  across  the 
large  and  busy  town,  and  Whitey  was  hopelessly  lost.  He 
had  but  one  eye,  a  feeble  one,  and  his  legs  were  not  to  be 
depended  upon;  but  he  managed  to  cover  a  great  deal  of 
ground,  to  have  many  painful  little  adventures,  and  to  get 
monstrously  hungry  and  thirsty  before  he  happened  to 
look  in  upon  Penrod  and  Sam. 

46 


When  the  two  boys  chased  him  up  the  alley  they  had  no 
intention  to  cause  pain;  they  had  no  intention  at  all.  They 
were  no  more  cruel  than  Duke,  Penrod's  little  old  dog,  who 
followed  his  own  instincts,  and,  making  his  appearance 
hastily  through  a  hole  in  the  back  fence,  joined  the  pur- 
suit with  sound  and  fury.  A  boy  will  nearly  always  run  after 
anything  that  is  running,  and  his  first  impulse  is  to  throw 
a  stone  at  it.  This  is  a  survival  of  primeval  man,  who  must 
take  every  chance  to  get  his  dinner.  So,  when  Penrod  and 
Sam  drove  the  hapless  Whitey  up  the  alley,  they  were  really 
responding  to  an  impulse  thousands  and  thousands  of  years 
old — an  impulse  founded  upon  the  primordial  observation 
that  whatever  runs  is  likely  to  prove  edible.  Penrod  and 
Sam  were  not  "bad";  they  were  never  that.  They  were 
something  that  was  not  their  fault;  they  were  historic. 

At  the  next  corner  Whitey  turned  to  the  right  into  the 
cross-street;  thence,  turning  to  the  right  again  and  still 
warmly  pursued,  he  zigzagged  down  a  main  thoroughfare 
until  he  reached  another  cross-street,  which  ran  alongside 
the  Schofields'  yard  and  brought  him  to  the  foot  of  the 
alley  he  had  left  behind  in  his  flight.  He  entered  the  alley, 
and  there  his  dim  eye  fell  upon  the  open  door  he  had 
previously  investigated.  No  memory  of  it  remained;  but  the 
place  had  a  look  associated  in  his  mind  with  hay,  and,  as 
Sam  and  Penrod  turned  the  corner  of  the  alley  in  panting 
yet  still  vociferous  pursuit,  Whitey  stumbled  up  the  in- 
clined platform  before  the  open  doors,  staggered  thun- 
derously across  the  carriage-house  and  through  another 
open  door  into  a  stall,  an  apartment  vacant  since  the  occu- 
pancy of  Mr.  Schofield's  last  horse,  now  several  years  de- 
ceased. 


SALVAGE 

THE  two  boys  shrieked  with  excitement  as  they  be- 
held  the   coincidence   of   this   strange   return.    They 
burst  into  the  stable,  making  almost  as  much  noise  as 
Duke,  who  had  become  frantic  at  the  invasion.  Sam  laid 
hands  upon  a  rake. 

"You  get  out  o'  there,  you  ole  horse,  you!"  he  bellowed. 

"I  ain't  afraid  to  drive  him  out.  I " 

"Wait  a  minute!"  Penrod  shouted.  "Wait  till  I " 

Sam  was  manfully  preparing  to  enter  the  stall. 
"You  hold  the  doors  open,"  he  commanded,  "so's  they 
won't  blow  shut  and  keep  him  in  here.  I'm  goin'  to  hit  him 
with " 

50 


"Quee-yut!"  Penrod  shouted,  grasping  the  handle  of  the 
rake  so  that  Sam  could  not  use  it.  "Wait  a  minute,  can't 
you?"  He  turned  with  ferocious  voice  and  gestures  upon 
Duke.  "Duke!"  And  Duke,  in  spite  of  his  excitement,  was  so 
impressed  that  he  prostrated  himself  in  silence,  and  then 
unobtrusively  withdrew  from  the  stable.  Penrod  ran  to  the 
alley  doors  and  closed  them. 

"My  gracious!"  Sam  protested.  "What  you  goin'  to  do?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  keep  this  horse,"  said  Penrod,  whose  face 
showed  the  strain  of  a  great  idea. 

"What  for?" 

"For  the  reward,"  said  Penrod  simply. 

Sam  sat  down  in  the  wheelbarrow  and  stared  at  his  friend 
almost  with  awe. 

"My  gracious,"  he  said,  "I  never  thought  o'  that!  How 
— how  much  do  you  think  we'll  get,  Penrod?" 

Sam's  thus  admitting  himself  to  a  full  partnership  in 
the  enterprise  met  no  objection  from  Penrod,  who  was  ab- 
sorbed in  the  contemplation  of  Whitey. 

"Well,"  he  said  judicially,  "we  might  get  more  and  we 
might  get  less." 

Sam  rose  and  joined  his  friend  in  the  doorway  opening 
upon  the  two  stalls.  Whitey  had  preempted  the  nearer,  and 
was  hungrily  nuzzling  the  old  frayed  hollows  in  the  manger. 

"Maybe  a  hunderd  dollars — or  sumpthing?"  Sam  asked 
in  a  low  voice. 

Penrod  maintained  his  composure  and  repeated  the  new- 
found expression  that  had  sounded  well  to  him  a  moment 
before.  He  recognized  it  as  a  symbol  of  the  non-committal 
attitude  that  makes  people  looked  up  to.  "Well" — he  made 
it  slow,  and  frowned — "we  might  get  more  and  we  might 
get  less." 

"More'n  a  hunderd  dollars?"  Sam  gasped. 

"Well,"  said  Penrod,  "we  might  get  more  and  we  might 
get  less."  This  time,  however,  he  felt  the  need  of  adding 
something.  He  put  a  question  in  an  indulgent  tone,  as 

51 


though  he  were  inquiring,  not  to  add  to  his  own  informa- 
tion but  to  discover  the  extent  of  Sam's.  "How  much  do  you 
think  horses  are  worth,  anyway?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Sam  said  frankly,  and,  unconsciously, 
he  added,  "They  might  be  more  and  they  might  be  less." 

"Well,  when  our  ole  horse  died,"  Penrod  said,  "Papa 
said  he  wouldn't  taken  five  hunderd  dollars  for  him.  That's 
how  much  horses  are  worth !" 

"My  gracious!"  Sam  exclaimed.  Then  he  had  a  prac- 
tical afterthought.  "But  maybe  he  was  a  better  horse  than 
this'n.  What  colour  was  he?" 

"He  was  bay.  Looky  here,  Sam" — and  now  Penrod's  man- 
ner changed  from  the  superior  to  the  eager — "you  look 
what  kind  of  horses  they  have  in  a  circus,  and  you  bet  a 
circus  has  the  best  horses,  don't  it?  Well,  what  kind  of 
horses  do  they  have  in  a  circus?  They  have  some  black 
and  white  ones;  but  the  best  they  have  are  white  all  over. 
Well,  what  kind  of  a  horse  is  this  we  got  here?  He's  perty 
near  white  right  now,  and  I  bet  if  we  washed  him  off  and 
got  him  fixed  up  nice  he  would  be  white.  Well,  a  bay  horse 
is  worth  five  hunderd  dollars,  because  that's  what  Papa  said, 
and  this  horse " 

Sam  interrupted  rather  timidly. 

"He — he's  awful  bony,  Penrod.  You  don't  guess  they'd 
make  any " 

Penrod  laughed  contemptuously. 

"Bony!  All  he  needs  is  a  little  food  and  he'll  fill  right  up 
and  look  good  as  ever.  You  don't  know  much  about  horses, 
Sam,  I  expect.  Why,  our  ole  horse " 

"Do  you  expect  he's  hungry  now?"  asked  Sam,  staring 
at  Whitey. 

"Let's  try  him,"  said  Penrod.  "Horses  like  hay  and  oats 
the  best ;  but  they'll  eat  most  anything." 

"I  guess  they  will.  He's  tryin'  to  eat  that  manger  up 
right  now,  and  I  bet  it  ain't  good  for  him." 

"Come  on,"   said  Penrod,   closing  the   door  that   gave 

52 


entrance  to  the  stalls.  "We  got  to  get  this  horse  some 
drinkin'-water  and  some  good  food." 

They  tried  Whitey's  appetite  first  with  an  autumnal 
branch  that  they  wrenched  from  a  hardy  maple  in  the  yard. 
They  had  seen  horses  nibble  leaves,  and  they  expected 
Whitey  to  nibble  the  leaves  of  this  branch ;  but  his  ravenous 
condition  did  not  allow  him  time  for  cool  discriminations. 
Sam  poked  the  branch  at  him  from  the  passageway,  and 
Whitey,  after  one  backward  movement  of  alarm,  seized  it 
venomously. 

"Here!  You  stop  that!"  Sam  shouted.  "You  stop  that, 
you  ole  horse,  you !" 

"What's  the  matter?"  called  Penrod  from  the  hydrant, 
where  he  was  filling  a  bucket.  "What's  he  doin'  now?" 

"DoinM  He's  eatin'  the  wood  part,  too!  He's  chewin'  up 
sticks  as  big  as  baseball  bats!  He's  crazy!" 

Penrod  rushed  to  see  this  sight,  and  stood  aghast. 

"Take  it  away  from  him,  Sam!"  he  commanded  sharply. 

"Go  on,  take  it  away  from  him  yourself !"  was  the  prompt 
retort  of  his  comrade. 

"You  had  no  biz'nuss  to  give  it  to  him,"  said  Penrod. 
"Anybody  with  any  sense  ought  to  know  it'd  make  him 
sick.  What'd  you  want  to  go  and  give  it  to  him  for?" 

"Well,  you  didn't  say  not  to." 

"Well,  what  if  I  didn't?  I  never  said  I  did,  did  I?  You 
go  on  in  that  stall  and  take  it  away  from  him." 

"Yes,  I  will!"  Sam  returned  bitterly.  Then,  as  Whitey 
had  dragged  the  remains  of  the  branch  from  the  manger 
to  the  floor  of  the  stall,  Sam  scrambled  to  the  top  of  the 
manger  and  looked  over.  "There  ain't  much  left  to  take 
away!  He's  swallered  it  all  except  some  splinters.  Better 
give  him  the  water  to  try  and  wash  it  down  with."  And,  as 
Penrod  complied,  "My  gracious,  look  at  that  horse  drink!" 

They  gave  Whitey  four  buckets  of  water,  and  then  de- 
bated the  question  of  nourishment.  Obviously,  this  horse 
could  not  be  trusted  with  branches,  and,  after  getting  their 
knees  black  and  their  backs  sodden,  they  gave  up  trying  to 

53 


pull  enough  grass  to  sustain  him.  Then  Penrod  remembered 
that  horses  like  apples,  both  "cooking-apples"  and  "eating- 
apples",  and  Sam  mentioned  the  fact  that  every  autumn  his 
father  received  a  barrel  of  "cooking-apples"  from  a  cousin 
who  owned  a  farm.  That  barrel  was  in  the  Williams'  cellar 
now,  and  the  cellar  was  providentially  supplied  with  "out- 
side doors",  so  that  it  could  be  visited  without  going  through 
the  house.  Sam  and  Penrod  set  forth  for  the  cellar. 

They  returned  to  the  stable  bulging,  and,  after  a  dis- 
cussion of  Whitey's  digestion  (Sam  claiming  that  eating 
the  core  and  seeds,  as  Whitey  did,  would  grow  trees  in  his 
inside)  they  went  back  to  the  cellar  for  supplies  again — 
and  again.  They  made  six  trips,  carrying  each  time  a 
capacity  cargo  of  apples,  and  still  Whitey  ate  in  a  famished 
manner.  They  were  afraid  to  take  more  apples  from  the 
barrel,  which  began  to  show  conspicuously  the  result  of  their 
raids,  wherefore  Penrod  made  an  unostentatious  visit  to  the 
cellar  of  his  own  house.  From  the  inside  he  opened  a  window 
and  passed  vegetables  out  to  Sam,  who  placed  them  in  a 
bucket  and  carried  them  hurriedly  to  the  stable,  while  Pen" 
rod  returned  in  a  casual  manner  through  the  house.  Of  his 
sang-froid  under  a  great  strain  it  is  sufficient  to  relate  that, 
in  the  kitchen,  he  said  suddenly  to  Delia,  the  cook,  "Oh, 
look  behind  you!"  and  by  the  time  Delia  discovered  that 
there  was  nothing  unusual  behind  her,  Penrod  was  gone,  and 
a  loaf  of  bread  from  the  kitchen  table  was  gone  with  him. 

Whitey  now  ate  nine  turnips,  two  heads  of  lettuce,  one 
cabbage,  eleven  raw  potatoes  and  the  loaf  of  bread.  He  ate 
the  loaf  of  bread  last  and  he  was  a  long  time  about  it;  so 
the  boys  came  to  a  not  unreasonable  conclusion. 

"Well,  sir,  I  guess  we  got  him  filled  up  at  last!"  said 
Penrod.  "I  bet  he  wouldn't  eat  a  saucer  of  ice-cream  now,  if 
we'd  give  it  to  him!" 

"He  looks  better  to  me,"  said  Sam,  staring  critically  at 
Whitey.  "I  think  he's  kind  of  begun  to  fill  out  some.  I  expect 
he  must  like  us,  Penrod;  we  been  doin'  a  good  deal  for  this 
horse." 

54 


"Well,  we  got  to  keep  it  up,"  Penrod  insisted  rather 
pompously.  "Long  as  /  got  charge  o'  this  horse,  he's  goin' 
to  get  good  treatment." 

"What  we  better  do  now,  Penrod?" 

Penrod  took  on  the  outward  signs  of  deep  thought. 

"Well,  there's  plenty  to  do,  all  right.  I  got  to  think." 

Sam  made  several  suggestions,  which  Penrod — maintain- 
ing his  air  of  preoccupation — dismissed  with  mere  gestures. 

"Oh,  /  know!"  Sam  cried  finally.  "We  ought  to  wash 
him  so's  he'll  look  whiter'n  what  he  does  now.  We  can  turn 
the  hose  on  him  acrost  the  manger." 

"No ;  not  yet,"  Penrod  said.  "It's  too  soon  after  his  meal. 
You  ought  to  know  that  yourself.  What  we  got  to  do  is  to 
make  up  a  bed  for  him — if  he  wants  to  lay  down  or  any- 
thing." 

"Make  up  a  what  for  him?"  Sam  echoed,  dumfounded. 
"What  you  talkin'  about?  How  can " 

"Sawdust,"  Penrod  said.  "That's  the  way  the  horse  we 
used  to  have  used  to  have  it.  We'll  make  this  horse's  bed 
in  the  other  stall,  and  then  he  can  go  in  there  and  lay  down 
whenever  he  wants  to." 

"How  we  goin'  to  do  it?" 

"Look,  Sam;  there's  the  hole  into  the  sawdust-box!  All 
you  got  to  do  is  walk  in  there  with  the  shovel,  stick  the 
shovel  in  the  hole  till  it  gets  full  of  sawdust,  and  then 
sprinkle  it  around  on  the  empty  stall." 

"All  /  got  to  do!"  Sam  cried.  "What  are  you  goin'  to 
do?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  be  right  here,"  Penrod  answered  reassur- 
ingly. "He  won't  kick  or  anything,  and  it  isn't  goin'  to  take 
you  half  a  second  to  slip  around  behind  him  to  the  other 
stall." 

"What  makes  you  think  he  won't  kick?" 

"Well,  I  know  he  won't,  and,  besides,  you  could  hit  him 
with  the  shovel  if  he  tried  to.  Anyhow,  I'll  be  right  here, 
won't  I?" 

55 


"I  don't  care  where  you  are,"  Sam  said  earnestly.  "What 
difference  would  that  make  if  he  ki " 

"Why,  you  were  goin'  right  in  the  stall,"  Penrod  re- 
minded him.  "When  he  first  came  in,  you  were  goin'  to 
take  the  rake  and " 

"I  don't  care  if  I  was,"  Sam  declared.  "I  was  €,xcited 
then." 

"Well,  you  can  get  excited  now,  can't  you?"  his  friend 
urged.  "You  can  just  as  easy  get " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  shout  from  Sam,  who  was  keep- 
ing his  eye  upon  Whitey  throughout  the  discussion. 

"Look!  Looky  there!"  And  undoubtedly  renewing  his 
excitement,  Sam  pointed  at  the  long,  gaunt  head  beyond 
the  manger.  It  was  disappearing  from  view.  "Look!"  Sam 
shouted.  "He's  layin'  down!" 

"Well,  then,"  said  Penrod,  "I  guess  he's  goin'  to  take 
a  nap.  If  he  wants  to  lay  down  without  waitin'  for  us  to 
get  the  sawdust  fixed  for  him,  that's  his  lookout,  not  ours.'* 

On  the  contrary,  Sam  perceived  a  favourable  opportunity 
for  action. 

"I  just  as  soon  go  and  make  his  bed  up  while  he's  layin' 
down,"  he  volunteered.  "You  climb  up  on  the  manger  and 
watch  him,  Penrod,  and  I'll  sneak  in  the  other  stall  and  fix 
it  all  up  nice  for  him,  so's  he  can  go  in  there  any  time  when 
he  wakes  up,  and  lay  down  again,  or  anything;  and  if  he 
starts  to  get  up,  you  holler  and  I'll  jump  out  over  the  other 
manger." 

Accordingly,  Penrod  established  himself  in  a  position  to 
observe  the  recumbent  figure.  Whitey's  breathing  was  rather 
laboured  but  regular,  and,  as  Sam  remarked,  he  looked 
"better",  even  in  his  slumber.  It  is  not  to  be  doubted  that 
although  Whitey  was  suffering  from  a  light  attack  of  colic 
his  feelings  were  in  the  main  those  of  contentment.  After 
trouble,  he  was  solaced;  after  exposure,  he  was  sheltered; 
after  hunger  and  thirst,  he  was  fed  and  watered.  He  slept. 

The  noon  whistles  blew  before  Sam's  task  was  finished; 
but  by  the  time  he  departed  for  lunch  there  was  made  a 

56 


bed  of  such  quality  that  Whitey  must  needs  have  been  a 
born  faultfinder  if  he  complained  of  it.  The  friends  parted, 
each  urging  the  other  to  be  prompt  in  returning;  but  Pen- 
rod  got  into  threatening  difficulties  as  soon  as  he  entered 
the  house. 


P 


REWARD    OF   MERIT 

ENROD,"  said  his  mother,  "what  did  you  do  with 
that  loaf  of  bread  Delia  says  you  took  from  the 
table?" 

"Ma'am?  What  loaf  o'  bread?" 

"I  believe  I  can't  let  you  go  outdoors  this  afternoon," 
Mrs.   Schofield  said  severely.   "If  you  were   hungry,   you 

know  perfectly  well  all  you  had  to  do  was  to " 

"But  I  wasn't  hungry;  I- 

"You  can  explain  later,"  Mrs.   Schofield  said.   "You'll 
have  all  afternoon." 

Penrod's  heart  grew  cold. 

"I  can't  stay  in,"  he  protested.  "I've  asked  Sam  Williams 
to  come  over." 

58 


"I'll  telephone  Mrs.  Williams." 

"Mamma!"  Penrod's  voice  became  agonized.  "I  had  to 
give  that  bread  to  a — to  a  poor  ole  man.  He  was  starving 
and  so  were  his  children  and  his  wife.  They  were  all  just 
starving — and  they  couldn't  wait  while  I  took  time  to  come 
and  ask  you,  Mamma.  I  got  to  go  outdoors  this  afternoon. 
I  got  to!  Sam's " 

She  relented. 

In  the  carriage-house,  half  an  hour  later,  Penrod  gave 
an  account  of  the  episode. 

"Where'd  we  been,  I'd  just  like  to  know,"  he  concluded, 
"if  I  hadn't  got  out  here  this  afternoon?" 

"Well,  I  guess  I  could  managed  him  all  right,"  Sam  -said. 
"I  was  in  the  passageway,  a  minute  ago,  takin'  a  look  at 
him.  He's  standin'  up  again.  I  expect  he  wants  more  to 
eat." 

"Well,  we  got  to  fix  about  that,"- said  Penrod.  "But  what 
I  mean — if  I'd  had  to  stay  in  the  house,  where  would  we 
been  about  the  most  important  thing  in  the  whole  biz'nuss  ?" 

"What  you  talkin'  about?" 

"Well,  why  can't  you  wait  till  I  tell  you?"  Penrod's  tone 
had  become  peevish.  For  that  matter,  so  had  Sam's;  they 
were  developing  one  of  the  little  differences,  or  quarrels, 
that  composed  the  very  texture  of  their  friendship. 

"Well,  why  don't  you  tell  me,  then?" 

"Well,  how  can  I?"  Penrod  demanded.  "You  keep  talkin' 
every  minute." 

"I'm  not  talkin'  now,  am  I?"  Sam  protested.  "You  can 
tell  me  now,  can't  you?  I'm  not  talk " 

"You  are,  too!"  Penrod  shouted.  "You  talk  all  the  time! 
You " 

He  was  interrupted  by  Whitey's  peculiar  cough.  Both 
boys  jumped  and  forgot  their  argument. 

"He  means  he  wants  some  more  to  eat,  I  bet,"  said  Sam. 

"Well,  if  he  does,  he's  got  to  wait,"  Penrod  declared.  "We 
got  to  get  the  most  important  thing  of  all  fixed  up  first." 

"What's  that,  Penrod?" 

59 


"The  reward,"  said  Penrod  mildly.  "That's  what  I  was 
tryin'  to  tell  you  about,  Sam,  if  you'd  ever  give  me  half  a 
chance." 

"Well,  I  did  give  you  a  chance.  I  kept  tellin9  you  to  tell 
me,  but " 

"You  never!  You  kept  sayin' " 

They  renewed  this  discussion,  protracting  it  indefinitely; 
but  as  each  persisted  in  clinging  to  his  own  interpretation 
of  the  facts,  the  question  still  remains  unsettled.  It  was 
abandoned,  or  rather,  it  merged  into  another  during  the 
later  stages  of  the  debate,  this  other  being  concerned  with 
which  of  the  debaters  had  the  least  "sense".  Each  made  the 
plain  statement  that  if  he  were  more  deficient  than  his 
opponent  in  that  regard,  self-destruction  would  be  his  only 
refuge.  Each  declared  that  he  would  "rather  die  than  be 
talked  to  death" ;  and  then,  as  the  two  approached  a  point 
bluntly  recriminative,  Whitey  coughed  again,  whereupon 
they  were  miraculously  silent,  and  went  into  the  passage- 
way in  a  perfectly  amiable  manner. 

"I  got  to  have  a  good  look  at  him,  for  once,"  Penrod  said, 
as  he  stared  f rowningly  at  Whitey.  "We  got  to  fix  up  about 
that  reward." 

"I  want  to  take  a  good  ole  look  at  him  myself,"  Sam  said. 

After  supplying  Whitey  with  another  bucket  of  water, 
they  returned  to  the  carriage-house  and  seated  themselves 
thoughtfully.  In  truth,  they  were  something  a  shade  more 
than  thoughtful;  the  adventure  to  which  they  had  com- 
mitted themselves  was  beginning  to  be  a  little  overpowering. 
If  Whitey  had  been  a  dog,  a  goat,  a  fowl,  or  even  a  stray 
calf,  they  would  have  felt  equal  to  him;  but  now  that  the 
earlier  glow  of  their  wild  daring  had  disappeared,  vague 
apprehensions  stirred.  Their  "good  look"  at  Whitey  had 
not  reassured  them — he  seemed  large,  Gothic  and  unusual. 

Whisperings  within  them  began  to  urge  that  for  boys 
to  undertake  an  enterprise  connected  with  so  huge  an  animal 
as  an  actual  horse  was  perilous.  Beneath  the  surface  of 


60 


their  musings,  dim  but  ominous  prophecies  moved;  both 
boys  began  to  have  the  feeling  that,  somehow,  this  affair 
was  going  to  get  beyond  them  and  that  they  would  be  in 
heavy  trouble  before  it  was  over — they  knew  not  why.  They 
knew  why  no  more  than  they  knew  why  they  felt  it  impera- 
tive to  keep  the  fact  of  Whitey's  presence  in  the  stable  a 
secret  from  their  respective  families;  but  they  did  begin 
to  realize  that  keeping  a  secret  of  that  size  was  going  to 
be  attended  with  some  difficulty.  In  brief,  their  sensations 
were  becoming  comparable  to  those  of  the  man  who  stole 
a  house. 

Nevertheless,  after  a  short  period  given  to  unspoken 
misgivings,  they  returned  to  the  subject  of  the  reward. 
The  money-value  of  bay  horses,  as  compared  to  white,  was 
again  discussed,  and  each  announced  his  certainty  that  noth- 
ing less  than  "a  good  ole  hunderd  dollars"  would  be  offered 
for  the  return  of  Whitey. 

But  immediately  after  so  speaking  they  fell  into  another 
silence,  due  to  sinking  feelings.  They  had  spoken  loudly 
and  confidently,  and  yet  they  knew,  somehow,  that  such 
things  were  not  to  be.  According  to  their  knowledge,  it  was 
perfectly  reasonable  to  suppose  that  they  would  receive  this 
fortune;  but  they  frightened  themselves  in  speaking  of  it. 
They  knew  that  they  could  not  have  a  hundred  dollars  for> 
their  own.  An  oppression,  as  from  something  awful  and 
criminal,  descended  upon  them  at  intervals. 

Presently,  however,  they  were  warmed  to  a  little  cheer- 
fulness again  by  Penrod's  suggestion  that  they  should  put 
a  notice  in  the  paper.  Neither  of  them  had  the  slightest  idea 
how  to  get  it  there;  but  such  details  as  that  were  beyond 
the  horizon;  they  occupied  themselves  with  the  question  of 
what  their  advertisement  ought  to  "say".  Finding  that  they 
differed  irreconcilably,  Penrod  went  to  his  cache  in  the 
sawdust-box  and  brought  two  pencils  and  a  supply  of  paper. 
He  gave  one  of  the  pencils  and  several  sheets  to  Sam;  then 
both  boys  bent  themselves  in  silence  to  the  labour  of  practical 


61 


composition.  Penrod  produced  the  briefer  paragraph.  (See 
Fig.  I.)  Sam's  was  more  ample.  (See  Fig.  II.) 

Neither  Sam  nor  Penrod  showed  any  interest  in  what  the 
other  had  written;  but  both  felt  that  something  praise- 
worthy had  been  accomplished.  Penrod  exhaled  a  sigh,  as 
of  relief,  and,  in  a  manner  he  had  observed  his  father  use 
sometimes,  he  said: 

"Thank  goodness,  that's  off  my  mind,  anyway !" 

"What  we  goin'  do  next,  Penrod?"  Sam  asked  deferen- 
tially, the  borrowed  manner  having  some  effect  upon  him. 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  goin'  to  do,"  Penrod  returned, 
picking  up  the  old  cigarbox  that  had  contained  the  paper 
and  pencils.  "Pm  goin'  to  put  mine  in  here,  so's  it'll  come 
in  handy  when  I  haf  to  get  at  it." 

"Well,  I  guess  I'll  keep  mine  there,  too,"  Sam  said.  There- 
upon he  deposited  his  scribbled  slip  beside  Penrod's  in  the 
cigarbox,  and  the  box  was  solemnly  returned  to  the  secret 
place  whence  it  had  been  taken.  "There,  that's  'tended  to !" 
Sam  said,  and,  unconsciously  imitating  his  friend's  imita- 
tion, he  gave  forth  audibly  a  breath  of  satisfaction  and 
relief. 

Both  boys  felt  that  the  financial  side  of  their  great  affair 
had  been  conscientiously  looked  to,  that  the  question  of  the 
reward  was  settled,  and  that  everything  was  proceeding  in 
a  businesslike  manner.  Therefore,  they  were  able  to  turn 
their  attention  to  another  matter. 

This  was  the  question  of  Whitey's  next  meal.  After  their 
exploits  of  the  morning,  and  the  consequent  imperilment 
of  Penrod,  they  decided  that  nothing  more  was  to  be  done 
in  apples,  vegetables  or  bread;  it  was  evident  that  Whitey 
must  be  fed  from  the  bosom  of  nature. 

"We  couldn't  pull  enough  o'  that  frostbit  ole  grass  in 
the  yard  to  feed  him,"  Penrod  said  gloomily.  "We  could 
work  a  week  and  not  get  enough  to  make  him  swaller  more'n 
about  twice.  All  we  got  this  morning,  he  blew  most  of  it 
away.  He'd  try  to  scoop  it  in  toward  his  teeth  with  his  lip, 
and  then  he'd  haf  to  kind  of  blow  out  his  breath,  and  after 

62 


FIGH 


that  all  the  grass  that'd  be  left  was  just  some  wet  pieces 
stickin'  to  the  outsides  of  his  face.  Well,  and  you  know 
how  he  acted  about  that  maple  branch.  We  can't  trust  him 
with  branches." 

Sam  jumped  up. 

"/  know!"  he  cried.  "There's  lots  of  leaves  left  on  the 
branches.  We  can  give  them  to  him." 

"I  just  said " 

"I  don't  mean  the  branches,"  Sam  explained.  "We'll  leave 
the  branches  on  the  trees,  but  just  pull  the  leaves  off  the 
branches  and  put  'em  in  the  bucket  and  feed  'em  to  him  out 
the  bucket." 

Penrod  thought  this  plan  worth  trying,  and  for  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  the  two  boys  were  busy  with  the  lower 
branches  of  various  trees  in  the  yard.  Thus  they  managed 
to  supply  Whitey  with  a  fair  quantity  of  wet  leaves,  which 
he  ate  in  a  perfunctory  way,  displaying  little  of  his  earlier 
enthusiasm.  And  the  work  of  his  purveyors  might  have  been 
more  tedious  if  it  had  been  less  damp,  for  a  boy  is  seldom 
bored  by  anything  that  involves  his  staying-out  in  the  rain 
without  protection.  The  drizzle  had  thickened;  the  leaves 
were  heavy  with  water,  and  at  every  jerk  the  branches  sent 
fat  drops  over  the  two  collectors.  They  attained  a  note- 
worthy state  of  sogginess. 

Finally,  they  were  brought  to  the  attention  of  the 
authorities  indoors,  and  Delia  appeared  upon  the  back 
porch. 

"Musther  Penrod,"  she  called,  "y'r  mamma  says  ye'U 
c'm  in  the  house  this  minute  an'  change  y'r  shoes  an'  stock- 
in's  an'  everythun'  else  ye  got  on!  D'ye  hear  me?" 

Penrod,  taken  by  surprise  and  unpleasantly  alarmed, 
darted  away  from  the  tree  he  was  depleting  and  ran  for  the 
stable. 

"You  tell  her  I'm  dry  as  toast!"  he  shouted  over  his 
shoulder. 

Delia  withdrew,  wearing  the  air  of  a  person  gratuitously 
insulted;  and  a  moment  later  she  issued  from  the  kitchen, 

64 


carrying  an  umbrella.  She  opened  it  and  walked  resolutely 
to  the  stable. 

"She  says  I'm  to  bring  ye  in  the  house,"  said  Delia,  "an' 
I'm  goin'  to  bring  ye!" 

Sam  had  joined  Penrod  in  the  carriage-house,  and,  with 
the  beginnings  of  an  unnamed  terror,  the  two  beheld  this 
grim  advance.  But  they  did  not  stay  for  its  culmination. 
Without  a  word  to  each  other  they  hurriedly  tiptoed  up  the 
stairs  to  the  gloomy  loft,  and  there  they  paused,  listening. 

They  heard  Delia's  steps  upon  the  carriage-house  floor. 

"Ah,  there's  plenty  places  t'hide  in,"  they  heard  her 
say;  "but  I'll  show  ye!  She  tole  me  to  bring  ye,  and 
I'm " 

She  was  interrupted  by  a  peculiar  sound — loud,  chilling, 
dismal,  and  unmistakably  not  of  human  origin.  The  boys 
knew  it  for  Whitey's  cough ;  but  Delia  had  not  their  experi- 
ence. A  smothered  shriek  reached  their  ears;  there  was  a 
scurrying  noise,  and  then,  with  horror,  they  heard  Delia's 
footsteps  in  the  passageway  that  ran  by  Whitey's  manger. 
Immediately  there  came  a  louder  shriek,  and  even  in  the 
anguish  of  knowing  their  secret  discovered,  they  were 
shocked  to  hear  distinctly  the  words,  "O  Lard  in  hiwin!" 
in  the  well-known  voice  of  Delia.  She  shrieked  again,  and 
they  heard  the  rush  of  her  footfalls  across  the  carriage- 
house  floor.  Wild  words  came  from  the  outer  air,  and  the 
kitchen  door  slammed  violently.  It  was  all  over.  She  had 
gone  to  "tell". 

Penrod  and  Sam  plunged  down  the  stairs  and  out  of  the 
stable.  They  climbed  the  back  fence  and  fled  up  the  alley. 
They  turned  into  Sam's  yard,  and,  without  consultation, 
headed  for  the  cellar  doors,  nor  paused  till  they  found  them- 
selves in  the  farthest,  darkest  and  gloomiest  recess  of  the 
cellar.  There,  perspiring,  stricken  with  fear,  they  sank  down 
upon  the  earthen  floor,  with  their  moist  backs  against  the 
stone  wall. 

Thus  with  boys.  The  vague  apprehensions  that  had  been 

65 


creeping  upon  Penrod  and  Sam  all  afternoon  had  become 
monstrous;  the  unknown  was  before  them.  How  great  their 
crime  would  turn  out  to  be  (now  that  it  was  in  the  hands 
of  grown  people)  they  did  not  know;  but,  since  it  concerned 
a  horse,  it  would  undoubtedly  be  considered  of  terrible 
dimensions. 

Their  plans  for  a  reward,  and  all  the  things  that  had 
seemed  both  innocent  and  practical  in  the  morning,  now 
staggered  their  minds  as  manifestations  of  criminal  folly. 
A  new  and  terrible  light  seemed  to  play  upon  the  day's 
exploits;  they  had  chased  a  horse  belonging  to  strangers, 
and  it  would  be  said  that  they  deliberately  drove  him  into 
the  stable  and  there  concealed  him.  They  had,  in  truth, 
virtually  stolen  him,  and  they  had  stolen  food  for  him.  The 
waning  light  through  the  small  window  above  them  warned 
Penrod  that  his  inroads  upon  the  vegetables  in  his  own 
cellar  must  soon  be  discovered.  Delia,  that  Nemesis,  would 
seek  them  in  order  to  prepare  them  for  dinner,  and  she 
would  find  them  not.  But  she  would  recall  his  excursion  to 
the  cellar,  for  she  had  seen  him  when  he  came  up ;  and  also 
the  truth  would  be  known  concerning  the  loaf  of  bread. 
Altogether,  Penrod  felt  that  his  case  was  worse  than  Sam's 
— until  Sam  offered  a  suggestion  that  roused  such  horrible 
possibilities  concerning  the  principal  item  of  their  offense 
that  all  thought  of  the  smaller  indictments  disappeared. 

"Listen,  Penrod,"  Sam  quavered:  "What— what  if  that 
— what  if  that  ole  horse  maybe  b'longed  to  a — policeman !" 
Sam's  imagination  was  not  of  the  comforting  kind.  "What'd 
they — do  to  us,  Penrod,  if  it  turned  out  he  was  some  police- 
man's horse?" 

Penrod  was  able  only  to  shake  his  head.  He  did  not  reply 
in  words;  but  both  boys  thenceforth  considered  it  almost 
inevitable  that  Whitey  had  belonged  to  a  policeman,  and, 
in  their  sense  of  so  ultimate  a  disaster,  they  ceased  for  a 
time  to  brood  upon  what  their  parents  would  probably  do  to 
them.  The  penalty  for  stealing  a  policeman's  horse  would  be 
only  a  step  short  of  capital,  they  were  sure.  They  would  not 

66 


be  hanged ;  but  vague,  looming  sketches  of  something  called 
the  penitentiary  began  to  flicker  before  them. 

It  grew  darker  in  the  cellar,  so  that  finally  they  could 
not  see  each  other. 

"I  guess  they're  huntin'  for  us  by  now,"  Sam  said  huskily. 
"I  don't — I  don't  like  it  much  down  here,  Penrod." 

Penrod's  hoarse  whisper  came  from  the  profound  gloom: 
"Well,  who  ever  said  you  did?" 

"Well "  Sam  paused;  then  he  said  plaintively,  "I 

wish  we'd  never  seen  that  dern  ole  horse." 

"It  was  every  bit  his  fault,"  said  Penrod.  "We  didn't 
do  anything.  If  he  hadn't  come  stickin'  his  ole  head  in  our 
stable,  it'd  never  happened  at  all.  Ole  fool!"  He  rose.  "I'm 
goin'  to  get  out  of  here;  I  guess  I've  stood  about  enough 
for  one  day." 

"Where — where  you  goin',  Penrod?  You  aren't  goin' 
home,  are  you?" 

"No;  I'm  not!  What  you  take  me  for?  You  think  I'm 
crazy?" 

"Well,  where  can  we  go?" 

How  far  Penrod's  desperation  actually  would  have  led 
him  is  doubtful ;  but  he  made  this  statement :  "I  don't  know 
where  you're  goin',  but  Pm  goin'  to  walk  straight  out  in 
the  country  till  I  come  to  a  farmhouse  and  say  my  name's 
George  and  live  there!" 

"I'll  do  it,  too,"  Sam  whispered  eagerly.  "I'll  say  my 
name's  Henry." 

"Well,  we  better  get  started,"  said  the  executive  Penrod. 
"We  got  to  get  away  from  here,  anyway." 

But  when  they  came  to  ascend  the  steps  leading  to  the 
"outside  doors",  they  found  that  those  doors  had  been  closed 
and  locked  for  the  night. 

"It's  no  use,"  Sam  lamented,  "and  we  can't  bust  'em,  cause 
I  tried  to,  once  before.  Fanny  always  locks  'em  about  five 
o'clock — I  forgot.  We  got  to  go  up  the  stairway  and  try  to 
sneak  out  through  the  house." 

They  tiptoed  back,  and  up  the  inner  stairs.  They  paused 

67 


at  the  top,  then  breathlessly  stepped  out  into  a  hall  that 
was  entirely  dark.  Sam  touched  Penrod's  sleeve  in  warning, 
and  bent  to  listen  at  a  door. 

Immediately  that  door  opened,  revealing  the  bright 
library,  where  sat  Penrod's  mother  and  Sam's  father. 

It  was  Sam's  mother  who  had  opened  the  door.  "Come 
into  the  library,  boys,"  she  said.  "Mrs.  Schofield  is  just 
telling  us  about  it." 

And  as  the  two  comrades  moved  dumbly  into  the  lighted 
room,  Penrod's  mother  rose,  and,  taking  him  by  the 
shoulder,  urged  him  close  to  the  fire. 

"You  stand  there  and  try  to  dry  off  a  little,  while  I  finish 
telling  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Williams  about  you  and  Sam,"  she 
said.  "You'd  better  make  Sam  keep  near  the  fire,  too,  Mrs. 
Williams,  because  they  both  got  wringing  wet.  Think  of 
their  running  off  just  when  most  people  would  have  wanted 
to  stay!  Well,  I'll  go  on  with  the  story,  then.  Delia  told 
me  all  about  it,  and  what  the  cook  next  door  said  she'd 
seen,  how  they'd  been  trying  to  pull  grass  and  leaves  for 
the  poor  old  thing  all  day — and  all  about  the  apples  they 
carried  from  your  cellar,  and  getting  wet  and  working  in 
the  rain  as  hard  as  they  could — and  they'd  given  him  a  loaf 
of  bread!  Shame  on  you,  Penrod!"  She  paused  to  laugh; 
but  there  was  a  little  moisture  about  her  eyes,  even  before 
she  laughed.  "And  they'd  fed  him  on  potatoes  and  lettuce 
and  cabbage  and  turnips  out  of  our  cellar!  And  I  wish 
you'd  seen  the  sawdust  bed  they  made  for  him!  Well,  when 
I'd  telephoned,  and  the  Humane  Society  man  got  there,  he 
said  it  was  the  most  touching  thing  he  ever  knew.  It  seems 
he  knew  this  horse,  and  had  been  looking  for  him.  He  said 
ninety-nine  boys  out  of  a  hundred  would  have  chased  the 
poor  old  thing  away;  he  said  he  thought  Sam  and  Penrod 
were  the  finest,  boys  in  town." 

Mr.  Williams  coughed.  "Well,  I  declare,"  he  said.  "Why, 
boys,  that's  splendid!" 

Sam  and  Penrod  were  too  busy  looking  modestly  noble  to 
look  at  each  other. 

68 


CONSCIENCE 

MRS.  SCHOFIELD  had  been  away  for  three  days, 
visiting  her  sister  in  Dayton,  Illinois,  and  on  the 
train,  coming  back,  she  fell  into  a  reverie.  Little 
dramas  of  memory  were  reenacted  in  her  pensive  mind,  and 
through  all  of  them  moved  the  figure  of  Penrod  as  a  prin- 
cipal figure,  or  star.  These  little  dramas  did  not  present 
Penrod  as  he  really  was,  much  less  did  they  glow  with  the 
uncertain  but  glamorous  light  in  which  Penrod  saw  himself. 
No ;  Mrs.  Schofield  had  indulged  herself  in  absence  from  her 
family  merely  for  her  own  pleasure,  and,  now  that  she  was 
homeward  bound,  her  conscience  was  asserting  itself;  the 
fact  that  she  had  enjoyed  her  visit  began  to  take  on  the 
aspect  of  a  crime. 

69 


She  had  heard  from  her  family  only  once  during  the 
three  days — the  message  "All  well  don't  worry  enjoy  your- 
self" telegraphed  by  Mr.  Schofield,  and  she  had  followed 
his  suggestions  to  a  reasonable  extent.  Of  course  she  had 
worried — but  only  at  times ;  wherefore  she  now  suffered  more 
and  more  poignant  pangs  of  shame  because  she  had  not 
Worried  constantly.  Naturally,  the  figure  of  Penrod,  in  her 
railway  reverie,  was  that  of  an  invalid. 

She  recalled  all  the  illnesses  of  his  babyhood  and  all  those 
of  his  boyhood.  She  reconstructed  scene  after  scene,  with 
the  hero  always  prostrate  and  the  family  physician  opening 
the  black  case  of  phials.  She  emphatically  renewed  her 
recollection  of  accidental  misfortunes  to  the  body  of  Penrod 
Schofield,  omitting  neither  the  considerable  nor  the  incon- 
siderable, forgetting  no  strain,  sprain,  cut,  bruise  or  dis- 
location of  which  she  had  knowledge.  And  running  this  film 
in  a  sequence  unrelieved  by  brighter  interludes,  she  produced 
a  biographical  picture  of  such  consistent  and  unremittent 
gloom  that  Penrod's  past  appeared  to  justify  disturbing 
thoughts  about  his  present  and  future. 

She  became  less  and  less  at  ease,  reproaching  herself  for 
having  gone  away,  wondering  how  she  had  brought  herself 
to  do  such  a  crazy  thing,  for  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  mem- 
bers of  her  family  were  almost  helpless  without  her  guid- 
ance ;  they  were  apt  to  do  anything — anything  at  all — or  to 
catch  anything.  The  more  she  thought  about  her  having  left 
these  irresponsible  harebrains  unprotected  and  undirected 
for  three  days,  the  less  she  was  able  to  account  for  her 
action.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  must  have  been  a  little 
flighty;  but,  shaking  her  head  grimly,  she  decided  that 
flightiness  was  not  a  good  excuse.  And  she  made  up  her 
mind  that  if,  upon  her  arrival,  she  found  poor  little 
neglected  Penrod  (and  Margaret  and  Mr.  Schofield)  spared 
to  her,  safe  and  sound,  she  would  make  up  to  them — 
especially  to  Penrod — for  all  her  lack  of  care  in  the  past, 
and  for  this  present  wild  folly  of  spending  three  whole  days 
and  nights  with  her  sister,  far  away  in  Dayton,  Illinois. 

70 


Consequently,  when  Mrs.  Schofield  descended  from  that 
train,  she  wore  the  hurried  but  determined  expression  that 
was  always  the  effect  upon  her  of  a  guilty  conscience. 

"You're  sure  Penrod  is  well  now?"  she  repeated,  after 
Mr.  Schofield  had  seated  himself  at  her  side  in  a  vehicle 
known  to  its  driver  as  a  "deepoe  hack". 

"  'Well  now?9  "  he  said.  "He's  been  weU  all  the  time. 
I've  told  you  twice  that  he's  all  right." 

"Men  can't  always  see."  She  shook  her  head  impatiently. 
"I  haven't  been  a  bit  sure  he  was  well  lately.  I  don't  think 
he's  been  really  well  for  two  or  three  months.  How  has  he 
seemed  to-day?" 

"In  fair  health,"  Mr.  Schofield  replied  thoughtfully. 
"Delia  called  me  up  at  the  office  to  tell  me  that  one  of  the 
telephone-men  had  come  into  the  house  to  say  that  if  that 
durn  boy  didn't  quit  climbing  their  poles  they'd  have  him 
arrested.  They  said  he " 

"That's  it!"  Mrs.  Schofield  interrupted  quickly.  "He's 
nervous.  It's  some  nervous  trouble  makes  him  act  like  that. 
He's  not  like  himself  at  all." 

"Sometimes,"  Mr.  Schofield  said,  "I  wish  he  weren't." 

"When  he's  himself,"  Mrs.  Schofield  went  on  anxiously, 
"he's  very  quiet  and  good ;  he  doesn't  go  climbing  telegraph- 
poles  and  reckless  things  like  that.  And  I  noticed  before  I 
went  away  that  he  was  growing  twitchy,  and  seemed  to  be 
getting  the  habit  of  making  unpleasant  little  noises  in  his 
throat." 

"Don't  fret  about  that,"  her  husband  said.  "He  was 
trying  to  learn  Sam  Williams's  imitation  of  a  bullfrog's 
croak.  I  used  to  do  that  myself  when  I  was  a  boy.  Gl-glump, 
gallump!  No;  I  can't  do  it  now.  But  nearly  all  boys  feel 
obliged  to  learn  it." 

"You're  entirely  mistaken,  Henry,"  she  returned  a  little 
sharply.  "That  isn't  the  way  he  goes  in  his  throat.  Penrod 
is  getting  to  be  a  very  nervous  boy,  and  he  makes  noises 
because  he  can't  help  it.  He  works  part  of  his  face,  too, 

71 


sometimes,  so  much  that  I've  been  afraid  it  would  interfere 
with  his  looks." 

"Interfere  with  his  what?"  For  the  moment,  Mr.  Scho- 
field  seemed  to  be  dazed. 

"When  he's  himself,"  she  returned  crisply,  "he's  quite  a 
handsome  boy." 

"He  is?" 

"Handsomer  than  the  average,  anyhow,"  Mrs.  Schofield 
said  firmly.  "No  wonder  you  don't  see  it — when  we've  let 
his  system  get  all  run  down  like  this!" 

"Good  heavens!"  the  mystified  Mr.  Schofield  murmured. 
"Penrod's  system  hasn't  been  running  down;  it's  just  the 
same  as  it  always  was.  He's  absolutely  all  right." 

"Indeed  he  is  not !"  she  said  severely.  "We've  got  to  take 
better  care  of  him  than  we  have  been." 

"Why,  how  could " 

"I  know  what  I'm  talking  about,"  she  interrupted.  "Pen- 
rod  is  anything  but  a  strong  boy,  and  it's  all  our  fault.  We 
haven't  been  watchful  enough  of  his  health;  that's  what's 
the  matter  with  him  and  makes  him  so  nervous." 

Thus  she  continued,  and,  as  she  talked  on,  Mr.  Schofield 
began,  by  imperceptible  processes,  to  adopt  her  views.  As 
for  Mrs.  Schofield  herself,  these  views  became  substantial 
by  becoming  vocal.  This  is  to  say,  with  all  deference,  that 
as  soon  as  she  heard  herself  stating  them  she  was  con- 
vinced that  they  accurately  represented  facts.  And  the  de- 
termined look  in  her  eyes  deepened  when  the  "deepoe  hack" 
turned  the  familiar  corner  and  she  saw  Penrod  running  to 
the  gate,  followed  by  Duke. 

Never  had  Penrod  been  so  glad  to  greet  his  mother.  Never 
was  he  more  boisterous  in  the  expression  of  happiness  of  that 
kind.  And  the  tokens  of  his  appetite  at  dinner,  a  little  later, 
were  extraordinary.  Mr.  Schofield  began  to  feel  reassured 
in  spite  of  himself;  but  Mrs.  Schofield  shook  her  head. 

"Don't  you  see?  It's  abnormal!"  she  said,  in  a  low,  de- 
cisive voice. 


That  night  Penrod  awoke  from  a  sweet,  conscienceless 
slumber — or,  rather,  he  was  awakened.  A  wrappered  form 
lurked  over  him  in  the  gloom. 

"Uff — ow "  he  muttered,  and  turned  his  face  from 

the  dim  light  that  shone  through  the  doorway.  He  sighed 
and  sought  the  depths  of  sleep  again. 

"Penrod,"  his  mother  said  softly,  and,  while  he  resisted 
feebly,  she  turned  him  over  to  face  her. 

"Gawn  lea'  me  'lone,"  he  muttered. 

Then,  as  a  little  sphere  touched  his  lips,  he  jerked  his 
head  away,  startled. 

"Whassat?" 

Mrs.  Schofield  replied  in  tones  honeysweet  and  coaxing: 
"It's  just  a  nice  little  pill,  Penrod." 

"Doe  waw  'ny!"  he  protested,  keeping  his  eyes  shut, 
clinging  to  the  sleep  from  which  he  was  being  riven. 

"Be  a  good  boy,  Penrod,"  she  whispered.  "Here's  a  glass 
of  nice  cool  water  to  swallow  it  down  with.  Come,  dear;  it's 
going  to  do  you  lots  of  good." 

And  again  the  little  pill  was  placed  suggestively  against) 
his  lips;  but  his  head  jerked  backward,  and  his  hand  struck' 
out  in  blind,  instinctive  self-defense. 

"I'll  bust  that  ole  pill,"  he  muttered,  still  with  closed  eyes. 
"Lemme  get  my  han's  on  it  an'  I  will!" 

"Penrod!" 

"Please  go  on  away,  Mamma!" 

"I  will,  just  as  soon  as  you  take  this  little  pill." 

"I  did!" 

"No,  dear." 

"I  did,"  Penrod  insisted  plaintively.  "You  made  me  take 
it  just  before  I  went  to  bed." 

"Oh,  yes;  that  one.  But,  dearie,"  Mrs.  Schofield  ex- 
plained, "I  got  to  thinking  about  it  after  I  went  to  bed, 
and  I  decided  you'd  better  have  another." 

"I  don't  want  another." 

"Yes,  dearie." 

"Please  go  'way  and  let  me  sleep." 

73 


"Not  till  you've  taken  the  little  pill,  dear." 

"Oh,  golly!"  Groaning,  he  propped  himself  upon  an  elbow 
and  allowed  the  pill  to  pass  between  his  lips.  (He  would 
have  allowed  anything  whatever  to  pass  between  them,  if 
that  passing  permitted  his  return  to  slumber.)  Then,  de- 
taining the  pill  in  his  mouth,  he  swallowed  half  a  glass  of 
water,  and  again  was  recumbent. 

"G'-night,  Mamma." 

"Good-night,  dearie.  Sleep  well." 

"Yes'm." 

After  her  departure  Penrod  drowsily  enjoyed  the  sugar 
coating  of  the  pill;  but  this  was  indeed  a  brief  pleasure.  A 
bitterness  that  was  like  a  pang  suddenly  made  itself  known 
to  his  sense  of  taste,  and  he  realized  that  he  had  dallied  too 
confidingly  with  the  product  of  a  manufacturing  chemist 
who  should  have  been  indicted  for  criminal  economy.  The 
medicinal  portion  of  the  little  pill  struck  the  wall  with  a 
faint  tap,  then  dropped  noiselessly  to  the  floor,  and,  after 
a  time,  Penrod  slept. 

Some  hours  later  he  began  to  dream ;  he  dreamed  that  his 
feet  and  legs  were  becoming  uncomfortable  as  a  result  of 
Sam  Williams's  activities  with  a  red-hot  poker. 

"You  quit  that!"  he  said  aloud,  and  awoke  indignantly. 
Again  a  dark,  wrappered  figure  hovered  over  the  bed. 

"It's  only  a  hot- water  bag,  dear,"  Mrs.  Schofield  said, 
still  labouring  under  the  covers  with  an  extended  arm.  "You 
mustn't  hunch  yourself  up  that  way,  Penrod.  Put  your  feet 
down  on  it." 

And,  as  he  continued  to  hunch  himself,  she  moved  the  bag 
in  the  direction  of  his  withdrawal. 

"Ow,  murder!"  he  exclaimed  convulsively.  "What  you 
tryin'  to  do?  Scald  me  to  death?" 

"Penrod " 

"My  goodness,  Mamma,"  he  wailed;  "can't  you  let  me 
sleep  a  mimute?" 

"It's  very  bad  for  you  to  let  your  feet  get  cold,  dear." 

"They  weren't  cold.  I  don't  want  any  ole  hot-wat " 

74 


"Penrod,"  she  said  firmly,  "you  must  put  your  feet 
against  the  bag.  It  isn't  too  hot." 

"Oh,  isn't  it?"  he  retorted.  "I  don't  s'pose  you'd  care  if 
I  burned  my  feet  right  off !  Mamma,  won't  you  please,  pul- 
leeze  let  me  get  some  sleep?" 

"Not  tiU  you " 

She  was  interrupted  by  a  groan  that  seemed  to  come 
from  an  abyss. 

"All  right,  I'll  do  it!  Let  'em  burn,  then!"  Thus  spake 
the  desperate  Penrod ;  and  Mrs.  Schofield  was  able  to  ascer- 
tain that  one  heel  had  been  placed  in  light  contact  with  the 
bag. 

"No;  both  feet,  Penrod." 

With  a  tragic  shiver  he  obeyed. 

"That's  right,  dear!  Now,  keep  them  that  way.  It's  good 
for  you.  Good-night." 

"G'-night!" 

The  door  closed  softly  behind  her,  and  the  body  of  Pen- 
rod,  from  the  hips  upward,  rose  invisibly  in  the  complete 
darkness  of  the  bedchamber.  A  moment  later  the  hot-water 
bag  reached  the  floor  in  as  noiseless  a  manner  as  that 
previously  adopted  by  the  remains  of  the  little  pill,  and 
Penrod  once  more  bespread  his  soul  with  poppies.  This 
time  he  slept  until  the  breakfast-bell  rang. 

He  was  late  to  school,  and  at  once  found  himself  in 
difficulties.  Government  demanded  an  explanation  of  the 
tardiness;  but  Penrod  made  no  reply  of  any  kind.  Taci- 
turnity is  seldom  more  strikingly  out  of  place  than  under 
such  circumstances,  and  the  penalties  imposed  took  account 
not  only  of  Penrod's  tardiness  but  of  his  supposititious 
defiance  of  authority  in  declining  to  speak.  The  truth  was 
that  Penrod  did  not  know  why  he  was  tardy,  and,  with 
mind  still  lethargic,  found  it  impossible  to  think  of  an 
excuse — his  continuing  silence  being  due  merely  to  the  per- 
sistence of  his  efforts  to  invent  one.  Thus  were  his  meek 
searchings  misinterpreted,  and  the  unloved  hours  of  im- 
provement in  science  and  the  arts  made  odious. 

75 


"They'll  see!"  he  whispered  sorely  to  himself,  as  he  bent 
low  over  his  desk,  a  little  later.  Some  day  he  would  "show 
'em".  The  picture  in  his  mind  was  of  a  vast,  vague  assembly 
of  people  headed  by  Miss  Spence  and  the  superior  pupils 
who  were  never  tardy,  and  these  multitudes,  representing 
persecution  and  government  in  general,  were  all  cringing 
before  a  Penrod  Schofield  who  rode  a  grim  black  horse  up 
and  down  their  miserable  ranks,  and  gave  curt  orders. 

"Make  'em  step  back  there!"  he  commanded  his  myr- 
midons savagely.  "Fix  it  so's  your  horses'll  step  on  their 
feet  if  they  don't  do  what  I  say!"  Then,  from  his  shining 
saddle,  he  watched  the  throngs  slinking  away.  "I  guess  the.y 
know  who  I  am  now!" 


76 


THE   TONIC 

THESE  breedings  helped  a  little;  but  it  was  a  severe 
morning,  and  on  his  way  home  at  noon  he  did  not 
recover  heart  enough  to  practise  the  bullfrog's  croak, 
the  craft  that  Sam  Williams  had  lately  mastered  to  inspir- 
ing perfection.  This  sonorous  accomplishment  Penrod  had 
determined  to  make  his  own.  At  once  guttural  and  reso- 
nant, impudent  yet  plaintive,  with  a  barbaric  twang  like 
the  plucked  string  of  a  Congo  war-fiddle,  the  sound  had 
fascinated  him.  It  is  made  in  the  throat  by  processes  utterly 
impossible  to  describe  in  human  words,  and  no  alphabet  as 
yet  produced  by  civilized  man  affords  the  symbols  to  vocalize 


it  to  the  ear  of  imagination.  "Gunk"  is  the  poor  makeshift 
that  must  be  employed  to  indicate  it. 

Penrod  uttered  one  half-hearted  "Gunk"  as  he  turned 
in  at  his  own  gate.  However,  this  stimulated  him,  and  he 
paused  to  practise.  "Gunk!"  he  croaked.  "Gunk — gunk — 
gunk — gunk!" 

Mrs.  Schofield  leaned  out  of  an  open  window  upstairs. 

"Don't  do  that,  Penrod,"  she  said  anxiously.  "Please 
don't  do  that." 

"Why  not?"  Penrod  asked,  and,  feeling  encouraged  by  his 
progress  in  the  new  art,  he  continued:  "Gunk!  Gunk — gunk 
— gunk!  Gunk — gunk " 

"Please  try  not  to  do  it,"  she  urged  pleadingly.  "You 
can  stop  it  if  you  try.  Won't  you,  dear?" 

But  Penrod  felt  that  he  was  almost  upon  the  point  of 
attaining  a  mastery  equal  to  Sam  Williams's.  He  had  just 
managed  to  do  something  in  his  throat  that  he  had  never 
done  before,  and  he  felt  that  unless  he  kept  on  doing  it  at 
this  time,  his  new-born  facility  might  evade  him  later. 
"Gunk!"  he  croaked.  "Gunk — gunk — gunk!"  And  he  con- 
tinued to  croak,  persevering  monotonously,  his  expression 
indicating  the  depth  of  his  preoccupation. 

His  mother  looked  down  solicitously,  murmured  in  a 
melancholy  undertone,  shook  her  head;  then  disappeared 
from  the  window,  and,  after  a  moment  or  two,  opened  the 
front  door. 

"Come  in,  dear,"  she  said;  "I've  got  something  for  you." 

Penrod's  look  of  preoccupation  vanished;  he  brightened 
and  ceased  to  croak.  His  mother  had  already  given  him  a 
small  leather  pocketbook  with  a  nickel  in  it,  as  a  souvenir 
of  her  journey.  Evidently  she  had  brought  another  gift  as 
well,  delaying  its  presentation  until  now.  "I've  got  some- 
thing for  you!"  These  were  auspicious  words. 

"What  is  it,  Mamma?"  he  asked,  and,  as  she  smiled 
tenderly  upon  him,  his  gayety  increased.  "Yay !"  he  shouted. 
"Mamma,  is  it  that  reg'lar  carpenter's  tool  chest  I  told 
you  about?" 

78 


"No,"  she  said.  "But  I'll  show  you,  Penrod.  Come  on, 
dear." 

He  followed  her  with  alacrity  to  the  dining-room,  and 
the  bright  anticipation  in  his  eyes  grew  more  brilliant — 
until  she  opened  the  door  of  the  china-closet,  simultane- 
ously with  that  action  announcing  cheerily: 

"It's  something  that's  going  to  do  you  lots  of  good, 
Penrod." 

He  was  instantly  chilled,  for  experience  had  taught  him 
that  when  predictions  of  this  character  were  made,  nothing 
pleasant  need  be  expected.  Two  seconds  later  his  last  hope 
departed  as  she  turned  from  the  closet  and  he  beheld  in  her 
hands  a  quart  bottle  containing  what  appeared  to  be  a 
section  of  grassy  swamp  immersed  in  a  cloudy  brown 
liquor.  He  stepped  back,  grave  suspicion  in  his  glance. 

"What  is  that?"  he  asked,  in  a  hard  voice. 

Mrs.  Schofield  smiled  upon  him.  "It's  nothing,"  she  said. 
"That  is,  it's  nothing  you'll  mind  at  all.  It's  just  so  you 
won't  be  so  nervous." 

"I'm  not  nervous." 

"You  don't  think  so,  of  course,  dear,"  she  returned,  and, 
as  she  spoke,  she  poured  some  of  the  brown  liquor  into  a 
tablespoon.  "People  often  can't  tell  when  they're  nervous 
themselves;  but  your  Papa  and  I  have  been  getting  a  little 
anxious  about  you,  dear,  and  so  I  got  this  medicine  for 
you." 

"Where'd  you  get  it?"  he  demanded. 

Mrs.  Schofield  set  the  bottle  down  and  moved  toward 
him,  insinuatingly  extending  the  full  tablespoon. 

"Here,  dear,"  she  said;  "just  take  this  little  spoonful, 
like  a  goo " 

"I  want  to  know  where  it  came  from,"  he  insisted  darkly, 
again  stepping  backward. 

"Where?"  she  echoed  absently,  watching  to  see  that  noth- 
ing was  spilled  from  the  spoon  as  she  continued  to  move 
toward  him.  "Why,  I  was  talking  to  old  Mrs.  Wottaw  at 
market  this  morning,  and  she  said  her  son  Clark  used  to 

79 


have  nervous  trouble,  and  she  told  me  about  this  medicine 
and  how  to  have  it  made  at  the  drug  store.  She  told  me  it 
cured  Clark,  and " 

"I  don't  want  to  be  cured,"  Penrod  said,  adding  incon- 
sistently, "I  haven't  got  anything  to  be  cured  of." 

"Now,  dear,"  Mrs.  Schofield  began,  "you  don't  want  your 
Papa  and  me  to  keep  on  worrying  about " 

"I  don't  care  whether  you  worry  or  not,"  the  heartless 
boy  interrupted.  "I  don't  want  to  take  any  horrable  ole 
medicine.  What's  that  grass  and  weeds  in  the  bottle  for?" 

Mrs.  Schofield  looked  grieved.  "There  isn't  any  grass  and 
there  aren't  any  weeds;  those  are  healthful  herbs." 

"I  bet  they'll  make  me  sick." 

She  sighed.  "Penrod,  we're  trying  to  make  you  well." 

"But  I  am  well,  I  tell  you!" 

"No,  dear;  your  Papa's  been  very  much  troubled  about 
you.  Come,  Penrod;  swallow  this  down  and  don't  make  such 
a  fuss  about  it.  It's  just  for  your  own  good." 

And  she  advanced  upon  him  again,  the  spoon  extended 
toward  his  lips.  It  almost  touched  them,  for  he  had  retreated 
until  his  back  was  against  the  wall-paper.  He  could  go  no 
farther;  but  he  evinced  his  unshaken  repugnance  by  avert- 
ing his  face. 

"What's  it  taste  like?"  he  demanded. 

"It's  not  unpleasant  at  all,"  she  answered,  poking  the 
spoon  at  his  mouth.  "Mrs.  Wottaw  said  Clark  used  to  be 
very  fond  of  it.  'It  doesn't  taste  like  ordinary  medicine  at 
all,'  she  said." 

"How  often  I  got  to  take  it?"  Penrod  mumbled,  as  the 
persistent  spoon  sought  to  enter  his  mouth.  "Just  this 
once?" 

"No,  dear;  three  times  a  day." 

"I  won't  do  it!" 

"Penrod!"  She  spoke  sharply.  "You  swallow  this  down 
and  stop  making  such  a  fuss.  I  can't  be  all  day.  Hurry!" 

She  inserted  the  spoon  between  his  lips,  so  that  its  rim 
touched  his  clenched  teeth ;  he  was  still  reluctant.  Moreover, 

80 


his  reluctance  was  natural  and  characteristic,  for  a  boy's 
sense  of  taste  is  as  simple  and  as  peculiar  as  a  dog's,  though, 
of  course,  altogether  different  from  a  dog's.  A  boy,  passing 
through  the  experimental  age,  may  eat  and  drink  astonish- 
ing things;  but  they  must  be  of  his  own  choosing.  His 
palate  is  tender,  and,  in  one  sense,  might  be  called  fas- 
tidious ;  nothing  is  more  sensitive  or  more  easily  shocked.  A 
boy  tastes  things  much  more  than  grown  people  taste  them : 
what  is  merely  unpleasant  to  a  man  is  sheer  broth  of  hell 
to  a  boy.  Therefore,  not  knowing  what  might  be  encoun- 
tered, Penrod  continued  to  be  reluctant. 

"Penrod,"  his  mother  exclaimed,  losing  patience,  "I'll  call 
your  Papa  to  make  you  take  it,  if  you  don't  swallow  it 
right  down!  Open  your  mouth,  Penrod!  It  isn't  going  to 
taste  bad  at  all.  Open  your  mouth — there!" 

The  reluctant  jaw  relaxed  at  last,  and  Mrs.  Schofield 
dexterously  elevated  the  handle  of  the  spoon  so  that  the 
brown  liquor  was  deposited  within  her  son. 

"There!"  she  repeated  triumphantly.  "It  wasn't  so  bad 
after  all,  was  it?" 

Penrod  did  not  reply.  His  expression  had  become  odd,  and 
the  oddity  of  his  manner  was  equal  to  that  of  his  expression. 
Uttering  no  sound,  he  seemed  to  distend,  as  if  he  had  sud- 
denly become  a  pneumatic  boy  under  dangerous  pressure. 
Meanwhile,  his  reddening  eyes,  fixed  awfully  upon  his 
mother,  grew  unbearable. 

"Now,  it  wasn't  such  a  bad  taste,"  Mrs.  Schofield  said 
rather  nervously.  "Don't  go  acting  that  way,  Penrod!" 

But  Penrod  could  not  help  himself.  In  truth,  even  a 
grown  person  hardened  to  all  manner  of  flavours,  and  able 
to  eat  caviar  or  liquid  Camembert,  would  have  found  the 
cloudy  brown  liquor  virulently  repulsive.  It  contained  in 
solution,  with  other  things,  the  vital  element  of  surprise,  for 
it  was  comparatively  odourless,  and,  unlike  the  chivalrous 
rattlesnake,  gave  no  warning  of  what  it  was  about  to  do. 
In  the  case  of  Penrod,  the  surprise  was  complete  And  its 
effect  visibly  shocking. 

81 


The  distention  by  which  he  began  to  express  his  emotion 
appeared  to  be  increasing;  his  slender  throat  swelled  as  his 
cheeks  puffed.  His  shoulders  rose  toward  his  ears ;  he  lifted 
his  right  leg  in  an  unnatural  way  and  held  it  rigidly  in  the 
air. 

"Stop  that,  Penrod!"  Mrs.  Schofield  commanded.  "You 
stop  it!" 

He  found  his  voice. 

"Uff!  Oooff!"  he  said  thickly,  and  collapsed — a  mere, 
ordinary,  every-day  convulsion  taking  the  place  of  his 
pneumatic  symptoms.  He  began  to  writhe,  at  the  same  time 
opening  and  closing  his  mouth  rapidly  and  repeatedly,  wav- 
ing his  arms,  stamping  on  the  floor. 

"Ow!  Ow-ow-ow!"  he  vociferated. 

Reassured  by  these  normal  demonstrations,  of  a  type  with 
which  she  was  familiar,  Mrs.  Schofield  resumed  her  fond 
smile. 

"You're  all  right,  little  boysie!"  she  said  heartily.  Then, 
picking  up  the  bottle,  she  replenished  the  tablespoon,  and 
told  Penrod  something  she  had  considered  it  undiplomatic 
to  mention  before. 

"Here's  the  other  one,"  she  said  sweetly. 

"Uuf !"  he  sputtered.  "Other— uh— what?" 

"Two  tablespoons  before  each  meal,"  she  informed  him. 

Instantly  Penrod  made  the  first  of  a  series  of  passionate 
efforts  to  leave  the  room.  His  determination  was  so  intense, 
and  the  manifestations  of  it  were  so  ruthless,  that  Mrs.  Scho- 
field, exhausted,  found  herself  obliged  to  call  for  the  official 
head  of  the  house — in  fact,  she  found  herself  obliged  to 
shriek  for  him;  and  Mr.  Schofield,  hastily  entering  the 
room,  beheld  his  wife  apparently  in  the  act  of  sawing  his 
son  back  and  forth  across  the  sill  of  an  open  window. 

Penrod  made  a  frantic  effort  to  reach  the  good  green 
earth,  even  after  his  mother's  clutch  upon  his  ankle  had 
been  reen forced  by  his  father's.  Nor  was  the  lad's  revolt 
subdued  when  he  was  deposited  upon  the  floor  and  the 
window  closed.  Indeed,  it  may  be  said  that  he  actually  never 

82 


gave  up,  though  it  is  a  fact  that  the  second  potion  was 
successfully  placed  inside  him.  But  by  the  time  this  feat 
was  finally  accomplished,  Mr.  Schofield  had  proved  that,  in 
spite  of  middle  age,  he  was  entitled  to  substantial  claims  and 
honours  both  as  athlete  and  orator — his  oratory  being 
founded  less  upon  the  school  of  Webster  and  more  upon 
that  of  Jeremiah. 

So  the  thing  was  done,  and  the  double  dose  put  within  the 
person  of  Penrod  Schofield.  It  proved  not  ineffective  there, 
and  presently,  as  its  new  owner  sat  morosely  at  table,  he 
began  to  feel  slightly  dizzy  and  his  eyes  refused  him  per- 
fect service.  This  was  natural,  because  two  tablespoons  of 
the  cloudy  brown  liquor  contained  about  the  amount  of 
alcohol  to  be  found  in  an  ordinary  cocktail.  Now  a  boy 
does  not  enjoy  the  effects  of  intoxication;  enjoyment  of 
that  kind  is  obtained  only  by  studious  application.  There- 
fore, Penrod  spoke  of  his  symptoms  complainingly,  and 
even  showed  himself  so  vindictive  as  to  attribute  them  to 
the  new  medicine. 

His  mother  made  no  reply.  Instead,  she  nodded  her  head 
as  if  some  inner  conviction  had  proven  well  founded. 

"Bilious,  too,"  she  whispered  to  her  husband. 

That  evening,  during  the  half -hour  preceding  dinner,  the 
dining-room  was  the  scene  of  another  struggle,  only  a  little 
less  desperate  than  that  which  had  been  the  prelude  to 
lunch,  and  again  an  appeal  to  the  head  of  the  house  was 
found  necessary.  Muscular  activity  and  a  liberal  imitation 
of  the  jeremiads  once  more  subjugated  the  rebel — and  the 
same  rebellion  and  its  suppression  in  a  like  manner  took 
place  the  following  morning  before  breakfast.  But  this  was 
Saturday,  and,  without  warning  or  apparent  reason,  a 
remarkable  change  came  about  at  noon.  However,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Schofield  were  used  to  inexpli cable  changes  in  Pen- 
rod,  and  they  missed  its  significance. 

When  Mrs.  Schofield,  with  dread  in  her  heart,  called 
Penrod  into  the  house  "to  take  his  medicine"  before  lunch, 
he  came  briskly,  and  took  it  like  a  lamb! 

83 


"Why,  Penrod,  that's  splendid!"  she  cried,  "You  see  it 
isn't  bad,  at  all." 

"No'm,"  he  said  meekly.  "Not  when  you  get  used  to  it." 

"And  aren't  you  ashamed,  making  all  that  fuss?"  she 
went  on  happily. 

"Yes'm,  I  guess  so." 

"And  don't  you  feel  better?  Don't  you  see  how  much 
good  it's  doing  you  already?" 

"Yes'm,  I  guess  so." 

Upon  a  holiday  morning,  several  weeks  later,  Penrod  and 
Sam  Williams  revived  a  pastime  that  they  called  "drug 
store",  setting  up  display  counters,  selling  chemical,  cos- 
metic and  other  compounds  to  imaginary  customers,  filling 
prescriptions  and  variously  conducting  themselves  in  a 
pharmaceutical  manner.  They  were  in  the  midst  of  affairs 
when  Penrod  interrupted  his  partner  and  himself  with  a 
cry  of  recollection. 

"/  know !"  he  shouted.  "I  got  some  mighty  good  ole  stuff 
we  want.  You  wait!"  And,  dashing  to  the  house,  he  dis- 
appeared. 

Returning  immediately,  Penrod  placed  upon  the  principal 
counter  of  the  "drug  store"  a  large  bottle.  It  was  a  quart 
bottle,  in  fact;  and  it  contained  what  appeared  to  be  a 
section  of  grassy  swamp  immersed  in  a  cloudy  brown 
liquor. 

"There!"  Penrod  exclaimed.  "How's  that  for  some  good 
ole  medicine?" 

"It's  good  ole  stuff,"  Sam  said  approvingly.  "Where'd 
you  get  it?  Whose  is  it,  Penrod?" 

"It  was  mine,"  said  Penrod.  "Up  to  about  serreval  days 
ago,  it  was.  They  quit  givin'  it  to  me.  I  had  to  take  two 
bottles  and  a  half  of  it." 

"What  did  you  haf  to  take  it  for?" 

"I  got  nervous,  or  sumpthing,"  said  Penrod. 

"You  all  well  again  now?" 

"I  guess  so.  I  expect  she  got  too  busy  to  think  about  it, 

84 


or  sumpthing.  Anyway,  she  quit  makin'  me  take  it,  and 
said  I  was  lots  better.  She's  forgot  all  about  it  by  this 
time." 

Sam  was  looking  at  the  bottle  with  great  interest. 

"What's  all  that  stuff  in  there,  Penrod?"  he  asked. 
"What's  all  that  stuff  in  there  looks  like  grass?" 

"It  is  grass,"  said  Penrod. 

"How'd  it  get  there?" 

"I  stuck  it  in  there,"  the  candid  boy  replied.  "First  they 
had  some  horrable  ole  stuff  in  there  like  to  killed  me.  But 
after  they  got  three  doses  down  me,  I  took  the  bottle  out 
in  the  yard  and  cleaned  her  all  out  and  pulled  a  lot  o'  good 
ole  grass  and  stuffed  her  pretty  full  and  poured  in  a  lot 
o'  good  ole  hydrant  water  on  top  of  it.  Then,  when  they  got 
the  next  bottle,  I  did  the  same  way,  and " 

"It  don't  look  like  water,"  Sam  objected. 

Penrod  laughed  a  superior  laugh. 

"Oh,  that's  nothin',"  he  said,  with  the  slight  swagger  of 
young  and  conscious  genius.  "Of  course,  I  had  to  slip  in 
and  shake  her  up  sometimes,  so's  they  wouldn't  notice." 

"But  what  did  you  put  in  it  to  make  it  look  like  that?" 

Penrod,  upon  the  point  of  replying,  happened  to  glance 
toward  the  house.  His  gaze,  lifting,  rested  for  a  moment 
upon  a  window.  The  head  of  Mrs.  Schofield  was  framed  in 
that  window.  She  nodded  gayly  to  her  son.  She  could  see 
him  plainly,  and  she  thought  that  he  seemed  perfectly 
healthy,  and  as  happy  as  a  boy  could  be.  She  was  right. 

"What  did  you  put  in  it?"  Sam  insisted. 

And  probably  it  was  just  as  well  that,  though  Mrs.  Scho- 
field could  see  her  son,  the  distance  was  too  great  for  her 
to  hear  him. 

"Oh,  nothin',"  Penrod  replied.  "Nothin'  but  a  little  good 
ole  mud." 


85 


GIPSY 

ON  A  fair  Saturday  afternoon  in  November  Penrod's 
little  old  dog  Duke  returned  to  the  ways  of  his  youth 
and  had  trouble  with  a  strange  cat  on  the  back 
porch.  This  indiscretion,  so  uncharacteristic,  was  due  to  the 
agitation  of  a  surprised  moment,  for  Duke's  experience  had 
inclined  him  to  a  peaceful  pessimism,  and  he  had  no  ambition 
for  hazardous  undertakings  of  any  sort.  He  was  given  to 
musing  but  not  to  avoidable  action,  and  he  seemed  habitually 
to  hope  for  something  that  he  was  pretty  sure  would  not 
happen.  Even  in  his  sleep,  this  gave  him  an  air  of  wistful- 
ness. 

Thus,  being  asleep  in  a  nook  behind  the  metal  refuse-can, 
when  the  strange  cat  ventured  to  ascend  the  steps  of  the 
porch,  his  appearance  was  so  unwarlike  that  the  cat  felt 

86 


encouraged  to  extend  its  field  of  reconnaissance — for  the 
cook  had  been  careless,  and  the  backbone  of  a  three-pound 
whitefish  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  refuse-can. 

This  cat  was,  for  a  cat,  needlessly  tall,  powerful,  in- 
dependent and  masculine.  Once,  long  ago,  he  had  been  a 
roly-poly  pepper-and-salt  kitten;  he  had  a  home  in  those 
days,  and  a  name,  "Gipsy",  which  he  abundantly  justified. 
He  was  precocious  in  dissipation.  Long  before  his  adoles- 
cence, his  lack  of  domesticity  was  ominous,  and  he  had 
formed  bad  companionships.  Meanwhile,  he  grew  so  rangy, 
and  developed  such  length  and  power  of  leg  and  such  traits 
of  character,  that  the  father  of  the  little  girl  who  owned  him 
was  almost  convincing  when  he  declared  that  the  young  cat 
was  half  broncho  and  half  Malay  pirate — though,  in  the 
light  of  Gipsy's  later  career,  this  seems  bitterly  unfair  to 
even  the  lowest  orders  of  bronchos  and  Malay  pirates. 

No;  Gipsy  was  not  the  pet  for  a  little  girl.  The  rosy 
hearthstone  and  sheltered  rug  were  too  circumspect  for 
him.  Surrounded  by  the  comforts  of  middle-class  respect- 
ability, and  profoundly  oppressed,  even  in  his  youth,  by  the 
Puritan  ideals  of  the  household,  he  sometimes  experienced 
a  sense  of  suffocation.  He  wanted  free  air  and  he  wanted 
free  life ;  he  wanted  the  lights,  the  lights  and  the  music.  He 
abandoned  the  bourgeoisie  irrevocably.  He  went  forth  in  a 
May  twilight,  carrying  the  evening  beefsteak  with  him,  and 
joined  the  underworld. 

His  extraordinary  size,  his  daring  and  his  utter  lack  of 
sympathy  soon  made  him  the  leader — and,  at  the  same  time, 
the  terror — of  all  the  loose-lived  cats  in  a  wide  neighbour- 
hood. He  contracted  no  friendships  and  had  no  confidants. 
He  seldom  slept  in  the  same  place  twice  in  succession,  and 
though  he  was  wanted  by  the  police,  he  was  not  found.  In 
appearance  he  did  not  lack  distinction  of  an  ominous  sort; 
the  slow,  rhythmic,  perfectly  controlled  mechanism  of  his 
tail,  as  he  impressively  walked  abroad,  was  incomparably 
sinister.  This  stately  and  dangerous  walk  of  his,  his  long, 
vibrant  whiskers,  his  scars,  his  yellow  eye,  so  ice-cold,  so 

87 


fire-hot,  haughty  as  the  eye  of  Satan,  gave  him  the  deadly 
air  of  a  mousquetaire  duellist.  His  soul  was  in  that  walk  and 
in  that  eye ;  it  could  be  read — the  soul  of  a  bravo  of  fortune, 
living  on  his  wits  and  his  valour,  asking  no  favours  and 
granting  no  quarter.  Intolerant,  proud,  sullen,  yet  watchful 
and  constantly  planning — purely  a  militarist,  believing  in 
slaughter  as  in  a  religion,  and  confident  that  art,  science, 
poetry  and  the  good  of  the  world  were  happily  advanced 
thereby — Gipsy  had  become,  though  technically  not  a  wild- 
cat, undoubtedly  the  most  untamed  cat  at  large  in  the 
civilized  world.  Such,  in  brief,  was  the  terrifying  creature 
that  now  elongated  its  neck,  and,  over  the  top  step  of  the 
porch,  bent  a  calculating  scrutiny  upon  the  wistful  and 
slumberous  Duke. 

The  scrutiny  was  searching  but  not  prolonged.  Gipsy 
muttered  contemptuously  to  himself,  "Oh,  sheol;  I'm  not 
afraid  o'  that!"  And  he  approached  the  fishbone,  his  padded 
feet  making  no  noise  upon  the  boards.  It  was  a  desirable 
fishbone,  large,  with  a  considerable  portion  of  the  fish's  tail 
still  attached  to  it. 

It  was  about  a  foot  from  Duke's  nose,  and  the  little  dog's 
dreams  began  to  be  troubled  by  his  olfactory  nerve.  This 
faithful  sentinel,  on  guard  even  while  Duke  slept,  signalled 
that  alarums  and  excursions  by  parties  unknown  were  tak- 
ing place,  and  suggested  that  attention  might  well  be  paid. 
Duke  opened  one  drowsy  eye.  What  that  eye  beheld  was 
monstrous. 

Here  was  a  strange  experience — the  horrific  vision  in  the 
midst  of  things  so  accustomed.  Sunshine  fell  sweetly  upon 
porch  and  backyard;  yonder  was  the  familiar  stable,  and 
from  its  interior  came  the  busy  hum  of  a  carpenter  shop, 
established  that  morning  by  Duke's  young  master,  in 
association  with  Samuel  Williams  and  Herman.  Here,  close 
by,  were  the  quiet  refuse-can  and  the  wonted  brooms  and 
mops  leaning  against  the  latticed  wall  at  the  end  of  the 
porch,  and  there,  by  the  foot  of  the  steps,  was  the  stone 
slab  of  the  cistern,  with  the  iron  cover  displaced  and  lying 

88 


beside  the  round  opening,  where  the  carpenters  had  left  it, 
not  half  an  hour  ago,  after  lowering  a  stick  of  wood  into 
the  water,  "to  season  it".  All  about  Duke  were  these  usual 
and  reassuring  environs  of  his  daily  life,  and  yet  it  was  his 
fate  to  behold,  right  in  the  midst  of  them,  and  in  ghastly 
juxtaposition  to  his  face,  a  thing  of  nightmare  and  lunacy. 

Gipsy  had  seized  the  fishbone  by  the  middle.  Out  from 
one  side  of  his  head,  and  mingling  with  his  whiskers,  pro- 
jected the  long,  spiked  spine  of  the  big  fish;  down  from  the 
other  side  of  that  ferocious  head  dangled  the  fish's  tail,  and 
from  above  the  remarkable  effect  thus  produced  shot  the 
intolerable  glare  of  two  yellow  eyes.  To  the  gaze  of  Duke, 
still  blurred  by  slumber,  this  monstrosity  was  all  of  one 
piece — the  bone  seemed  a  living  part  of  it.  What  he  saw  was 
like  those  interesting  insect-faces  that  the  magnifying  glass 
reveals  to  great  M.  Fabre.  It  was  impossible  for  Duke  to 
maintain  the  philosophic  calm  of  M.  Fabre,  however;  there 
was  no  magnifying  glass  between  him  and  this  spined  and 
spiky  face.  Indeed,  Duke  was  not  in  a  position  to  think  the 
matter  over  quietly.  If  he  had  been  able  to  do  that,  he  would 
have  said  to  himself:  "We  have  here  an  animal  of  most 
peculiar  and  unattractive  appearance,  though,  upon  ex- 
amination, it  seems  to  be  only  a  cat  stealing  a  fishbone. 
Nevertheless,  as  the  thief  is  large  beyond  all  my  recollection 
of  cats  and  has  an  unpleasant  stare,  I  will  leave  this  spot 
at  once." 

On  the  contrary,  Duke  was  so  electrified  by  his  horrid 
awakening  that  he  completely  lost  his  presence  of  mind.  In 
the  very  instant  of  his  first  eye's  opening,  the  other  eye 
and  his  mouth  behaved  similarly,  the  latter  loosing  upon 
the  quiet  air  one  shriek  of  mental  agony  before  the  little 
dog  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  gave  further  employment 
to  his  voice  in  a  frenzy  of  profanity.  At  the  same  time  the 
subterranean  diapason  of  a  demoniac  bass  viol  was  heard ;  it 
rose  to  a  wail,  and  rose  and  rose  again  till  it  screamed  like 
a  small  siren.  It  was  Gipsy's  war-cry,  and,  at  the  sound 
of  it,  Duke  became  a  frothing  maniac.  He  made  a  convulsive 

89 


frontal    attack    ur>on    the    hobgoblin — and    the    massacre 
began. 

Never  releasing  the  fishbone  for  an  instant,  Gipsy  laid 
back  his  ears  in  a  chilling  way,  beginning  to  shrink  into  him- 
self like  a  concertina,  but  rising  amidships  so  high  that  he 
appeared  to  be  giving  an  imitation  of  that  peaceful  beast, 
the  dromedary.  Such  was  not  his  purpose,  however,  for, 
having  attained  his  greatest  possible  altitude,  he  partially 
sat  down  and  elevated  his  right  arm  after  the  manner  of  a 
semaphore.  This  semaphore  arm  remained  rigid  for  a 
second,  threatening;  then  it  vibrated  with  inconceivable 
rapidity,  feinting.  But  it  was  the  treacherous  left  that  did 
the  work.  Seemingly  this  left  gave  Duke  three  lightning 
little  pats  upon  the  right  ear;  but  the  change  in  his  voice 
indicated  that  these  were  no  love-taps.  He  yelled  "help!" 
and  "bloody  murder!" 

Never  had  such  a  shattering  uproar,  all  vocal,  broken 
out  upon  a  peaceful  afternoon.  Gipsy  possessed  a  vocabu- 
lary for  cat-swearing  certainly  second  to  none  out  of  Italy, 
and  probably  equal  to  the  best  there,  while  Duke  remem- 
bered and  uttered  things  he  had  not  thought  of  for  years. 

The  hum  of  the  carpenter  shop  ceased,  and  Sam  Williams 
appeared  in  the  stable  doorway.  He  stared  insanely. 

"My  gorry!"  he  shouted.  "Duke's  havin'  a  fight  with 
the  biggest  cat  you  ever  saw  in  your  life !  C'mon !" 

His  feet  were  already  in  motion  toward  the  battlefield, 
with  Penrod  and  Herman  hurrying  in  his  wake.  Onward 
they  sped,  and  Duke  was  encouraged  by  the  sight  and 
sound  of  these  reinforcements  to  increase  his  own  out- 
rageous clamours  and  to  press  home  his  attack.  But  he  was 
ill-advised.  This  time  it  was  the  right  arm  of  the  semaphore 
that  dipped — and  Duke's  honest  nose  was  but  too  conscious 
of  what  happened  in  consequence. 

A  lump  of  dirt  struck  the  refuse-can  with  violence,  and 
Gipsy  beheld  the  advance  of  overwhelming  forces.  They 
rushed  upon  him  from  two  directions,  cutting  off  the  steps 
of  the  porch.  Undaunted,  the  formidable  cat  raked  Duke's 

90 


nose  again,  somewhat  more  lingeringly,  and  prepared  to 
depart  with  his  fishbone.  He  had  little  fear  for  himself, 
because  he  was  inclined  to  think  that,  unhampered,  he  could 
whip  anything  on  earth;  still,  things  seemed  to  be  growing 
rather  warm  and  he  saw  nothing  to  prevent  his  leaving. 

And  though  he  could  laugh  in  the  face  of  so  unequal  an 
antagonist  as  Duke,  Gipsy  felt  that  he  was  never  at  his  best 
or  able  to  do  himself  full  justice  unless  he  could  perform 
that  feline  operation  inaccurately  known  as  "spitting".  To 
his  notion,  this  was  an  absolute  essential  to  combat;  but, 
as  all  cats  of  the  slightest  pretensions  to  technique  perfectly 
understand,  it  can  neither  be  well  done  nor  produce  the  best 
effects  unless  the  mouth  be  opened  to  its  utmost  capacity  so 
as  to  expose  the  beginnings  of  the  alimentary  canal,  down 
which — at  least  that  is  the  intention  of  the  threat — the 
opposing  party  will  soon  be  passing.  And  Gipsy  could  not 
open  his  mouth  without  relinquishing  his  fishbone. 

Therefore,  on  small  accounts  he  decided  to  leave  the 
field  to  his  enemies  and  to  carry  the  fishbone  elsewhere.  He 
took  two  giant  leaps.  The  first  landed  him  upon  the  edge 
of  the  porch.  There,  without  an  instant's  pause,  he  gath- 
ered his  fur-sheathed  muscles,  concentrated  himself  into  one 
big  steel  spring,  and  launched  himself  superbly  into  space. 
He  made  a  stirring  picture,  however  brief,  as  he  left  the 
solid  porch  behind  him  and  sailed  upward  on  an  ascending 
curve  into  the  sunlit  air.  His  head  was  proudly  up ;  he  was 
the  incarnation  of  menacing  power  and  of  self-confidence. 
It  is  possible  that  the  whitefish's  spinal  column  and  flopping 
tail  had  interfered  with  his  vision,  and  in  launching  him- 
self he  may  have  mistaken  the  dark,  round  opening  of  the 
cistern  for  its  dark,  round  cover.  In  that  case,  it  was  a  leap 
calculated  and  executed  with  precision,  for  as  the  boys 
clamoured  their  pleased  astonishment,  Gipsy  descended  ac- 
curately into  the  orifice  and  passed  majestically  from  pub- 
lic view,  with  the  fishbone  still  in  his  mouth  and  his  haughty 
head  still  high. 

There  was  a  grand  splash  1 

91 


CONCERNING   TROUSERS 

DUKE,  hastening  to   place  himself  upon  the  stone 
slab,  raged  at  his  enemy  in  safety;  and  presently 
the  indomitable   Gipsy   could  be   heard   from   the 
darkness  below,  turning  on  the  bass  of  his  siren,  threaten- 
ing the  water  that  enveloped  him,  returning  Duke's  pro- 
fanity with  interest,  and  cursing  the  general  universe. 

"You  hush!"  Penrod  stormed,  rushing  at  Duke.  "You 
go  'way  from  here !  You  Duke!" 

And  Duke,  after  prostrating  himself,  decided  that  it 
Would  be  a  relief  to  obey  and  to  consider  his  responsibilities 
in  this  matter  at  an  end.  He  withdrew  beyond  a  corner  of 
the  house,  thinking  deeply. 

"Why'n't  you  let  him  bark  at  the  ole  cat?"  Sam  Wil- 

92 


Hams  inquired,  sympathizing  with  the  oppressed.  "I  guess 
you'd  want  to  bark  if  a  cat  had  been  treatin'  you  the  way 
this  one  did  Duke." 

"Well,  we  got  to  get  this  cat  out  o'  here,  haven't  we?" 
Penrod  demanded  crossly. 

"What  fer?"  Herman  asked.  "Mighty  mean  cat!  If  it 
was  me,  I  let  'at  ole  cat  drownd." 

"My  goodness,"  Penrod  cried.  "What  you  want  to  let 
it  drown  for?  Anyways,  we  got  to  use  this  water  in  our 
house,  haven't  we?  You  don't  s'pose  people  like  to  use  water 
that's  got  a  cat  drowned  in  it,  do  you?  It  gets  pumped  up 
into  the  tank  in  the  attic  and  goes  all  over  the  house,  and 
I  bet  you  wouldn't  want  to  see  your  father  and  mother 
usin'  water  a  cat  was  drowned  in.  I  guess  I  don't  want  my 
father  and  moth " 

"Well,  how  can  we  get  it  out?"  Sam  asked,  cutting  short 
this  virtuous  oration.  "It's  swimmin'  around  down  there," 
he  continued,  peering  into  the  cistern,  "and  kind  of  roaring, 
and  it  must  of  dropped  its  fishbone,  'cause  it's  spittin'  just 
awful.  I  guess  maybe  it's  mad  'cause  it  fell  in  there." 

"I  don't  know  how  it's  goin'  to  be  got  out,"  said  Pen- 
rod;  "Iput  I  know  it's  got  to  be  got  out,  and  that's  all  there 
is  to  it!  I'm  not  goin'  to  have  my  father  and  mother " 

"Well,  once,"  said  Sam,  "once  when  a  kitten  fell  down  our 
cistern,  Papa  took  a  pair  of  his  trousers,  and  he  held  'em 
by  the  end  of  one  leg,  and  let  'em  hang  down  through  the 
hole  till  the  end  of  the  other  leg  was  in  the  water,  and  the 
kitten  went  and  clawed  hold  of  it,  and  he  pulled  it  right  up, 
easy  as  anything.  Well,  that's  the  way  to  do  now,  'cause  if  a 
kitten  could  keep  hold  of  a  pair  of  trousers,  I  guess  this 
ole  cat  could.  It's  the  biggest  cat  I  ever  saw!  All  you  got 
to  do  is  to  go  and  ast  your  mother  for  a  pair  of  your 
father's  trousers,  and  we'll  have  this  ole  cat  out  o'  there  in 
no  time." 

Penrod  glanced  toward  the  house  perplexedly. 

"She  ain't  home,  and  I'd  be  afraid  to 

"Well,  take  your  own,  then,"   Sam  suggested  briskly. 

93 


''You  take  'em  off  in  the  stable,  and  wait  in  there,  and  I  and 
Herman'll  get  the  cat  out." 

Penrod  had  no  enthusiasm  for  this  plan ;  but  he  affected 
to  consider  it. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  'bout  that,"  he  said,  and  then,  after 
gazing  attentively  into  the  cistern  and  making  some  eye 
measurements  of  his  knickerbockers,  he  shook  his  head. 
"They'd  be  too  short.  They  wouldn't  be  near  long  enough !" 

"Then  neither  would  mine,"  said  Sam  promptly. 

"Herman's  would,"  said  Penrod. 

"No,  suh!"  Herman  had  recently  been  promoted  to  long 
trousers,  and  he  expressed  a  strong  disinclination  to  fall  in 
with  Penrod's  idea.  "My  Mammy  sit  up  late  nights  sewin' 
on  'ese  britches  fer  me,  makin'  'em  outen  of  a  pair  o' 
Pappy's,  an'  they  mighty  good  britches.  Ain'  goin'  have  no 
wet  cat  climbin'  up  'em !  No,  suh !" 

Both  boys  began  to  walk  toward  him  argumentatively, 
while  he  moved  slowly  backward,  shaking  his  head  and  deny- 
ing them. 

"I  don't  keer  how  much  you  talk!"  he  said.  "Mammy 
give  my  ole  britches  to  Verman,  an'  'ese  here  ones  on'y 
britches  I  got  now,  an'  I'm  go'  to  keep  'em  on  me — not  take 
'em  off  an'  let  ole  wet  cat  splosh  all  over  'em.  My  Mammy, 
she  sewed  'em  fer  me,  I  reckon — din'  sew  'em  fer  no  cat!" 

"Oh,  please,  come  on,  Herman !"  Penrod  begged  patheti- 
cally. "You  don't  want  to  see  the  poor  cat  drown,  do  you?" 

"Mighty  mean  cat!"  Herman  said.  "Bet'  let  'at  ole 
pussy-cat  'lone  whur  it  is." 

"Why,  it'll  only  take  a  minute,"  Sam  urged.  "You  just 
wait  inside  the  stable  and  you'll  have  'em  back  on  again 
before  you  could  say  'Jack  Robinson'." 

"I  ain'  got  no  use  to  say  no  Jack  Robason,"  said  Her- 
man. "An'  I  ain'  go'  to  han'  over  my  britches  fer  no  cat!" 

"Listen  here,  Herman,"  Penrod  began  pleadingly.  "You 
can  watch  us  every  minute  through  the  crack  in  the  stable 
door,  can't  you  ?  We  ain't  goin'  to  hurt  'em  any,  are  we  ?  You 
can  see  everything  we  do,  can't  you?  Look  at  here,  Her- 

94 


man:  you  know  that  little  saw  you  said  you  wished  it  was 
yours,  in  the  carpenter  shop?  Well,  honest,  if  you'll  just 
let  us  take  your  trousers  till  we  get  this  poor  ole  cat  out 
the  cistern,  I'll  give  you  that  little  saw." 

Herman  was  shaken ;  he  yearned  for  the  little  saw. 

"You  gimme  her  to  keep?"  he  asked  cautiously.  "You 
gimme  her  befo'  I  han'  over  my  britches?" 

"You'll  see !"  Penrod  ran  into  the  stable,  came  back  with 
the  little  saw,  and  placed  it  in  Herman's  hand.  Herman 
could  resist  no  longer,  and  two  minutes  later  he  stood  in 
the  necessary  negligee  within  the  shelter  of  the  stable  door, 
and  watched,  through  the  crack,  the  lowering  of  the  sur- 
rendered garment  into  the  cistern.  His  gaze  was  anxious, 
and  surely  nothing  could  have  been  more  natural,  since  the 
removal  had  exposed  Herman's  brown  legs,  and,  although 
the  weather  was  far  from  inclement,  November  is  never 
quite  the  month  for  people  to  be  out  of  doors  entirely  with- 
out leg-covering.  Therefore,  he  marked  with  impatience 
that  Sam  and  Penrod,  after  lowering  the  trousers  part- 
way to  the  water,  had  withdrawn  them  and  fallen  into  an 
argument. 

"Name  o'  goo'ness!"  Herman  shouted.  "I  am'  got  no 
time  fer  you  all  do  so  much  talkin'.  If  you  go'  git  'at  cat 
out,  why'n't  you  git  him?" 

"Wait  just  a  minute,"  Penrod  called,  and  he  came  run- 
ning to  the  stable,  seized  upon  a  large  wooden  box,  which 
the  carpenters  had  fitted  with  a  lid  and  leather  hinges,  and 
returned  with  it  cumbersomely  to  the  cistern.  "There!"  he 
said.  "That'll  do  to  put  it  in.  It  won't  get  out  o'  that,  I  bet 
you!" 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  know  what  you  want  to  keep  it  for," 
Sam  said  peevishly,  and,  with  the  suggestion  of  a  sneer,  he 
added,  "I  s'pose  you  think  somebody'll  pay  about  a  hunderd 
dollars  reward  or  something,  on  account  of  a  cat !" 

"I  don't,  either!"  Penrod  protested  hotly.  "I  know  what 
I'm  doin',  I  tell  you." 

"Well,  what  on  earth " 

95 


"I'll  tell  you  some  day,  won't  I?"  Penrod  cried.  "I  got 
my  reasons  for  wantin'  to  keep  this  cat,  and  I'm  goin'  to 
keep  it.  You  don't  haf  to  ke— 

"Well,  all  right,"  Sam  said  shortly.  "Anyways,  it'll  be 
dead  if  you  don't  hurry." 

"It  won't,  either,"  Penrod  returned,  kneeling  and  peer- 
ing down  upon  the  dark  water.  "Listen  to  him !  He's  growl- 
in'  and  spittin'  away  like  anything !  It  takes  a  mighty  fine- 
blooded  cat  to  be  as  fierce  as  that.  I  bet  you  most  cats  would 
'a'  given  up  and  drowned  long  ago.  The  water's  awful  cold, 
and  I  expect  he  was  perty  supprised  when  he  lit  in  it." 

"Herman's  makin'  a  fuss  again,"  Sam  said.  "We  better 
get  the  ole  cat  out  o'  there  if  we're  goin'  to." 

"Well,  this  is  the  way  we'U  do,"  Penrod  said  authorita- 
tively: "I'll  let  you  hold  the  trousers,  Sam.  You  lay  down 
and  keep  hold  of  one  leg,  and  let  the  other  one  hang  down 
till  its  end  is  in  the  water.  Then  you  kind  of  swish  it  around 
till  it's  somewheres  where  the  cat  can  get  hold  of  it,  and  soon 
as  he  does,  you  pull  it  up,  and  be  mighty  careful  so's  it 
don't  fall  off.  Then  I'll  grab  it  and  stick  it  in  the  box  and 
slam  the  lid  down." 

Rather  pleased  to  be  assigned  to  the  trousers,  Sam  ac- 
cordingly extended  himself  at  full  length  upon  the  slab 
and  proceeded  to  carry  out  Penrod's  instructions.  Mean- 
while, Penrod,  peering  from  above,  inquired  anxiously  for 
information  concerning  this  work  of  rescue. 

"Can  you  see  it,  Sam?  Why  don't  it  grab  hold?  What's 
it  doin'  now,  Sam?" 

"It's  spittin'  at  Herman's  trousers,"  said  Sam.  "My 
gracious,  but  it's  a  fierce  cat!  If  it's  mad  all  the  time  like 
this,  you  better  not  ever  try  to  pet  it  much.  Now  it's  kind 
o'  sniffin'  at  the  trousers.  It  acks  to  me  as  if  it  was  goin'  to 
ketch  hold.  Yes,  it's  stuck  one  claw  in  'em Ow!" 

Sam  uttered  a  blood-curdling  shriek  and  jerked  con- 
vulsively. The  next  instant,  streaming  and  inconceivably 
gaunt,  the  ravening  Gipsy  appeared  with  a  final  bound  upon 
Sam's  shoulder.  It  was  not  in  Gipsy's  character  to  be  drawn 

96 


up  peaceably ;  he  had  ascended  the  trousers  and  Sam's  arm 
without  assistance  and  in  his  own  way.  Simultaneously — for 
this  was  a  notable  case  of  everything  happening  at  once — 
there  was  a  muffled,  soggy  splash,  and  the  unfortunate  Her- 
man, smit  with  prophecy  in  his  seclusion,  uttered  a  dismal 
yell.  Penrod  laid  hands  upon  Gipsy,  and,  after  a  struggle 
suggestive  of  sailors  landing  a  man-eating  shark,  succeeded 
in  getting  him  into  the  box,  and  sat  upon  the  lid  thereof. 

Sam  had  leaped  to  his  feet,  empty  handed  and  vociferous. 

"Ow,  ow,  ouch!"  he  shouted,  as  he  rubbed  his  suffering 
arm  and  shoulder.  Then,  exasperated  by  Herman's  lamenta- 
tions, he  called  angrily:  "Oh,  what  /  care  for  your  ole 
britches?  I  guess  if  you'd  'a'  had  a  cat  climb  up  you,  you'd 
'a'  dropped  'em  a  hunderd  times  over !" 

However,  upon  excruciating  entreaty,  he  consented  to 
explore  the  surface  of  the  water  with  a  clothes-prop,  but 
reported  that  the  luckless  trousers  had  disappeared  in  the 
depths,  Herman  having  forgotten  to  remove  some  "fishin1 
sinkers"  from  his  pockets  before  making  the  fated  loan. 

Penrod  was  soothing  a  lacerated  wrist  in  his  mouth. 

"That's  a  mighty  fine-blooded  cat,"  he  remarked.  "I  ex- 
pect it'd  got  away  from  pretty  near  anybody,  'specially 
if  they  didn't  know  much  about  cats.  Listen  at  him,  in  the 
box,  Sam.  I  bet  you  never  heard  a  cat  growl  as  loud  as  that 
in  your  life.  I  shouldn't  wonder  it  was  part  panther  or 
sumpthing." 

Sam  began  to  feel  more  interest  and  less  resentment. 

"I  tell  you  what  we  can  do,  Penrod,"  he  said:  "Let's  take 
it  in  the  stable  and  make  the  box  into  a  cage.  We  can  take 
off  the  hinges  and  slide  back  the  lid  a  little  at  a  time,  and 
nail  some  o'  those  laths  over  the  front  for  bars." 

"That's  just  exackly  what  I  was  goin'  to  say!"  Pen- 
rod  exclaimed.  "I  already  thought  o'  that,  Sam.  Yessir, 
we'll  make  it  just  like  a  reg'lar  circus-cage,  and  our  good  ole 
cat  can  look  out  from  between  the  bars  and  growl.  It'll  come 
in  pretty  handy  if  we  ever  decide  to  have  another  show. 
Anyways,  we'll  have  her  in  there,  good  and  tight,  where  we 

97 


can  watch  she  don't  get  away.  I  got  a  mighty  good  reason 
to  keep  this  cat,  Sam.  You'll  see." 

"Well,  why  don't  you '  Sam  was  interrupted  by  a 

vehement  appeal  from  the  stable.  "Oh,  we're  comin'!"  he 
shouted.  "We  got  to  bring  our  cat  in  its  cage,  haven't  we?" 

"Listen,  Herman,"  Penrod  called  absent-mindedly. 
"Bring  us  some  bricks,  or  something  awful  heavy  to  put 
on  the  lid  of  our  cage,  so  we  can  carry  it  without  our  good 
ole  cat  pushin'  the  lid  open." 

Herman  explained  with  vehemence  that  it  would  not  be 
right  for  him  to  leave  the  stable  upon  any  errand  until  just 
restorations  had  been  made.  He  spoke  inimically  of  the  cat 
that  had  been  the  occasion  of  his  loss,  and  he  earnestly  re- 
quested that  operations  with  the  clothes-prop  be  resumed 
in  the  cistern.  Sam  and  Penrod  declined,  on  the  ground 
that  this  was  absolutely  proven  to  be  of  no  avail,  and  Sam 
went  to  look  for  bricks. 

These  two  boys  were  not  unfeeling.  They  sympathized 
with  Herman;  but  they  regarded  the  trousers  as  a  loss 
about  which  there  was  no  use  in  making  so  much  outcry. 
To  them,  it  was  part  of  an  episode  that  ought  to  be  closed. 
They  had  done  their  best,  and  Sam  had  not  intended  to 
drop  the  trousers;  that  was  something  no  one  could  have 
helped,  and  therefore  no  one  was  to  be  blamed.  What  they 
were  now  interested  in  was  the  construction  of  a  circus-cage 
for  their  good  ole  cat. 

"It's  goin'  to  be  a  cage  just  exactly  like  circus-cages, 
Herman,"  Penrod  said,  as  he  and  Sam  set  the  box  down  on 
the  stable  floor.  "You  can  help  us  nail  the  bars  and " 

"I  ain*  studyin'  'bout  no  bars!"  Herman  interrupted 
fiercely.  "What  good  you  reckon  nailin'  bars  go'  do  me  if 
Mammy  holler  fer  me?  You  white  boys  sutn'y  show  me  bad 
day !  I  try  treat  people  nice,  'n'en  they  go  th'ow  my  britches 
down  cistern !" 

"I  did  not!"  Sam  protested.  "That  ole  cat  just  kicked 
'em  out  o'  my  hand  with  its  hind  feet  while  its  front  ones 
were  stickin'  in  my  aroi.  I  bet  you'd  of " 

98 


"Blame  it  on  cat!"  Herman  sneered.  "  'At's  nice!  Jes' 
looky  here  minute:  Who'd  I  len'  'em  britches  to?  D'  I  len' 
'em  britches  to  thishere  cat?  No,  suh;  you  know  I  didn'! 
You  know  well's  any  man  I  len'  'em  britches  to  you — an' 
you  tuck  an'  th'owed  'em  down  cistern!" 

"Oh,  please  hush  up  about  your  old  britches!"  Penrod 
said  plaintively.  "I  got  to  think  how  we're  goin'  to  fix  our 
cage  up  right,  and  you  make  so  much  noise  I  can't  get  my 
mind  on  it.  Anyways,  didn't  I  give  you  that  little  saw?" 

"Li'l  saw !"  Herman  cried,  unmollified.  "Yes ;  an'  thishere 
li'l  saw  go'  do  me  lot  o'  good  when  I  got  to  go  home !" 

"Why,  it's  only  across  the  alley  to  your  house,  Herman!" 
said  Sam.  "That  ain't  anything  at  all  to  step  over  there, 
and  you've  got  your  little  saw." 

"Aw  right!  You  jes'  take  off  you'  clo'es  an'  step  'cross 
the  alley,"  said  Herman  bitterly.  "I  give  you  li'l  saw  to 
carry !" 

Penrod  had  begun  to  work  upon  the  cage. 

"Now  listen  here,  Herman,"  he  said :  "if  you'll  quit  talkin' 
so  much,  and  kind  of  get  settled  down  or  sumpthing,  and 
help  us  fix  a  good  cage  for  our  panther,  well,  when  Mamma 
comes  home  about  five  o'clock,  I'll  go  and  tell  her  there's  a 
poor  boy  got  his  britches  burned  up  in  a  fire,  and  how  he's 
waitin'  out  in  the  stable  for  some,  and  I'll  tell  her  I  promised 
him.  Well,  she'll  give  me  a  pair  I  wore  for  summer;  honest 
she  will,  and  you  can  put  'em  on  as  quick  as  anything." 

"There,  Herman,"  said  Sam;  "now  you're  all  right 
again !" 

"Who  all  right?"  Herman  complained.  "I  like  feel 
sump'm'  roun'  my  laigs  befo'  no  five  o'clock!" 

"Well,  you're  sure  to  get  'em  by  then,"  Penrod  promised. 
"It  ain't  winter  yet,  Herman.  Come  on  and  help  saw  these 
laths  for  the  bars,  Herman,  and  Sam  and  I'll  nail  'em  on.  It 
ain't  long  till  five  o'clock,  Herman,  and  then  you'll  just  feel 
fine!" 

Herman  was  not  convinced;  but  he  found  himself  at  a 
disadvantage  in  the  argument.  The  question  at  issue  seemed 

99 


a  vital  one  to  him — and  yet  his  two  opponents  evidently 
considered  it  of  minor  importance.  Obviously,  they  felt  that 
the  promise  for  five  o'clock  had  settled  the  whole  matter 
conclusively;  but  to  Herman  this  did  not  appear  to  be  the 
fact.  However,  he  helplessly  suffered  himself  to  be  cajoled 
back  into  carpentry,  though  he  was  extremely  ill  at  ease  and 
talked  a  great  deal  of  his  misfortune.  He  shivered  and 
grumbled,  and,  by  his  passionate  urgings,  compelled  Pen- 
rod  to  go  into  the  house  so  many  times  to  see  what  time  it 
was  by  the  kitchen  clock  that  both  his  companions  almost 
lost  patience  with  him. 

"There!"  said  Penrod,  returning  from  performing  this 
errand  for  the  fourth  time.  "It's  twenty  minutes  after  three, 
and  I'm  not  goin'  in  to  look  at  that  ole  clock  again  if  I  haf 
to  die  for  it !  I  never  heard  anybody  make  such  a  fuss  in  my 
life,  and  I'm  gettin'  tired  of  it.  Must  think  we  want  to  be 
all  night  fixin'  this  cage  for  cur  panther!  If  you  ask  me 
to  go  and  see  what  time  it  is  again,  Herman,  I'm  a-goin'  to 
take  back  about  askin5  Mamma  at  five  o'clock,  and  then 
where'U  you  be?" 

"Well,  it  seem  like  mighty  long  aft'noon  to  me,"  Her- 
man sighed.  "I  jes'  like  to  know  what  time  it  is  gettin'  to  be 
now!" 

"Look  out !"  Penrod  warned  him.  "You  heard  what  I  was 
just  tellin'  you  about  how  I'd  take  back " 

"Nemmine,"  Herman  said  hurriedly.  "I  wasn'  astin'  you. 
I  jes'  sayin'  sump'm'  kind  o'  to  myse'f  like." 


100 


-tfe — 


CAMERA   WORK    IN    THE   JUNGLE 

f  |  ^HE    completed   cage,   with  Gipsy   behind   the   bars, 
framed  a  spectacle  sufficiently  thrilling  and  panther- 
like.  Gipsy  raved,  "spat",  struck  virulently  at  taunt- 
ing  fingers,  turned  on  his  wailing  siren  for  minutes  at  a 
time,  and  he  gave  his  imitation  of  a  dromedary  almost  con- 
tinuously. These  phenomena  could  be  intensified  in  pic- 
turesqueness,  the  boys  discovered,  by  rocking  the  cage  a 
little,  tapping  it  with  a  hammer,  or  raking  the  bars  with  a 
stick.  Altogether,  Gipsy  was  having  a  lively  afternoon. 

There  came  a  vigorous  rapping  on  the  alley  door  of  the 
stable,  and  Verman  was  admitted. 


101 


"Yay,  Verman!"  cried  Sam  Williams.  "Come  and  look 
at  our  good  ole  panther !" 

Another  curiosity,  however,  claimed  Verman's  attention. 
His  eyes  opened  wide,  and  he  pointed  at  Herman's  legs. 

"Wha'  ma'  oo?  Mammy  hay  oo  hip  ap  hoe-woob." 

"Mammy  tell  me  git  'at  stove-wood?"  Herman  interpreted 
resentfully.  "How'm  I  go'  git  'at  stove-wood  when  my 
britches  down  bottom  'at  cistern,  I  like  you  answer  me 
please?  You  shet  'at  do'  behime  you!" 

Verman  complied,  and  again  pointing  to  his  brother's 
legs,  requested  to  be  enlightened. 

"Ain'  I  tole  you  once  they  down  bottom  'at  cistern?"  Her- 
man shouted,  much  exasperated.  "You  wan'  know  how  come 
so,  you  ast  Sam  Williams.  He  say  thishere  cat  tuck  an' 
th'owed  'em  down  there !" 

Sam,  who  was  busy  rocking  the  cage,  remained  cheer- 
fully absorbed  in  that  occupation. 

"Come  look  at  our  good  ole  panther,  Verman,"  he  called. 
"I'll  get  this  circus-cage  rockin'  right  good,  an'  then " 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Penrod ;  "I  got  sumpthing  I  got  to 
think  about.  Quit  rockin'  it !  I  guess  I  got  a  right  to  think 
about  sumpthing  without  havin'  to  go  deaf,  haven't  I?" 

Having  obtained  the  quiet  so  plaintively  requested,  he 
knit  his  brow  and  gazed  intently  upon  Verman,  then  upon 
Herman,  then  upon  Gipsy.  Evidently  his  idea  was  fer- 
menting. He  broke  the  silence  with  a  shout. 

"/  know,  Sam!  I  know  what  we'll  do  now!  I  just  thought 
of  it,  and  it's  goin'  to  be  sumpthing  I  bet  there  aren't  any 
other  boys  in  this  town  could  do,  because  where  would  they 
get  any  good  ole  panther  like  we  got,  and  Herman  and  Ver- 
man? And  they'd  haf  to  have  a  dog,  too — and  we  got  our 
good  ole  Dukie,  I  guess.  I  bet  we  have  the  greatest  ole  time 
this  afternoon  we  ever  had  in  our  lives !" 

His  enthusiasm  roused  the  warm  interest  of  Sam  and 
Verman,  though  Herman,  remaining  cold  and  suspicious, 
asked  for  details. 

102 


"An'  I  like  to  hear  if  it's  sump'm',"  he  concluded,  "what's 
go'  git  me  my  britches  back  outen  'at  cistern !" 
3  "Well,  it  ain't  exackly  that,"  said  Penrod.  "It's  different 
from  that.  What  I'm  thinkin'  about,  well,  for  us  to  have  it 
the  way  it  ought  to  be,  so's  you  and  Verman  would  look 
like  natives — well,  Verman  ought  to  take  off  his  britches, 
too." 

"Mo!"  said  Verman,  shaking  his  head  violently.  "Mo!" 

"Well,  wait  a  minute,  can't  you?"  Sam  Williams  said. 
"Give  Penrod  a  chance  to  say  what  he  wants  to,  first,  can't 
you?  Go  on,  Penrod." 

"Well,  you  know,  Sam,"  said  Penrod,  turning  to  this 
sympathetic  auditor;  "you  remember  that  movin'-pitcher 
show  we  went  to,  'Fortygraphing  Wild  Animals  in  the 
Jungle'.  Well,  Herman  wouldn't  have  to  do  a  thing  more 
to  look  like  those  natives  we  saw  that  the  man  called  the 
'beaters'.  They  were  dressed  just  about  like  the  way  he  is 
now,  and  if  Verman " 

"Mo/"  said  Verman. 

"Oh,  wait  a  minute,  Verman!"  Sam  entreated.  "Go  on, 
Penrod." 

"Well,  we  can  make  a  mighty  good  jungle  up  in  the 
loft,"  Penrod  continued  eagerly.  "We  can  take  that  ole 
dead  tree  that's  out  in  the  alley  and  some  branches,  and  I 
bet  we  could  have  the  best  jungle  you  ever  saw.  And  then 
we'd  fix  up  a  kind  of  place  in  there  for  our  panther,  only, 
of  course,  we'd  haf  to  keep  him  in  the  cage  so's  he  wouldn't 
run  away ;  but  we'd  pretend  he  was  loose.  And  then  you  re- 
member how  they  did  with  that  calf?  Well,  we'd  have  Duke 
for  the  tied-up  calf  for  the  panther  to  come  out  and  jump 
on,  so  they  could  fortygraph  him.  Herman  can  be  the  chief 
beater,  and  we'll  let  Verman  be  the  other  beaters,  and 
I'll- 

"Yay!"  shouted  Sam  Williams.  "I'll  be  the  fortygraph 
man!" 

"No,"  said  Penrod;  "you  be  the  one  with  the  gun  that 
guards  the  fortygraph  man,  because  I'm  the  fortygraph 

103 


man  already.  You  can  fix  up  a  mighty  good  gun  with  this 
carpenter  shop,  Sam.  We'll  make  spears  for  our  good  ole 
beaters,  too,  and  I'm  goin'  to  make  me  a  camera  out  o'  that 
little  starch-box  and  a  bakin'-powder  can  that's  goin'  to  be 
a  mighty  good  ole  camera.  We  can  do  lots  more  things 

"Yay!"  Sam  cried.  "Let's  get  started!"  He  paused. 
"Wait  a  minute,  Penrod.  Verman  says  he  won't n 

"Well,  he's  got  to!"  said  Penrod. 

"I  momp !"  Verman  insisted,  almost  distinctly. 

They  began  to  argue  with  him;  but,  for  a  time,  Verman 
remained  firm.  They  upheld  the  value  of  dramatic  con- 
sistency, declaring  that  a  beater  dressed  as  completely  as 
he  was  "wouldn't  look  like  anything  at  all".  He  would 
"spoil  the  whole  biznuss",  they  said,  and  they  praised  Her- 
man for  the  faithful  accuracy  of  his  costume.  They  also  in- 
sisted that  the  garment  in  question  was  much  too  large  for 
Verman,  anyway,  having  been  so  recently  worn  by  Herman 
and  turned  over  to  Verman  with  insufficient  alteration,  and 
they  expressed  surprise  that  "anybody  with  any  sense" 
should  make  such  a  point  of  clinging  to  a  misfit. 

Herman  sided  against  his  brother  in  this  controversy, 
perhaps  because  a  certain  loneliness,  of  which  he  was  con- 
scious, might  be  assuaged  by  the  company  of  another 
trouserless  person — or  it  may  be  that  his  motive  was  more 
sombre.  Possibly  he  remembered  that  Verman's  trousers 
were  his  own  former  property  and  might  fit  him  in  case  the 
promise  for  five  o'clock  turned  out  badly.  At  all  events, 
Verman  finally  yielded  under  great  pressure,  and  consented 
to  appear  in  the  proper  costume  of  the  multitude  of  beaters 
it  now  became  his  duty  to  personify. 

Shouting,  the  boys  dispersed  to  begin  the  preparation 
of  their  jungle  scene.  Sam  and  Penrod  went  for  branches 
and  the  dead  tree,  while  Herman  and  Verman  carried  the 
panther  in  his  cage  to  the  loft,  where  the  first  thing  that 
Verman  did  was  to  hang  his  trousers  on  a  nail  in  a  con- 
spicuous and  accessible  spot  near  the  doorway.  And  with 
the  arrival  of  Penrod  and  Sam,  panting  and  dragging  no 

104 


inconsiderable  thicket  after  them,  the  coloured  brethren 
began  to  take  a  livelier  interest  in  things.  Indeed,  when 
Penrod,  a  little  later,  placed  in  their  hands  two  spears, 
pointed  with  tin,  their  good  spirits  were  entirely  restored, 
and  they  even  began  to  take  a  pride  in  being  properly  un- 
cos turned  beaters. 

Sam's  gun  and  Penrod's  camera  were  entirely  satisfac- 
tory, especially  the  latter.  The  camera  was  so  attractive,  in 
fact,  that  the  hunter  and  the  chief  beater  and  all  the  other 
beaters  immediately  resigned  and  insisted  upon  being  pho- 
tographers. Each  had  to  be  given  a  "turn"  before  the  jungle 
project  could  be  resumed. 

"Now,  for  goodnesses'  sakes,"  said  Penrod,  taking  the 
camera  from  Verman,  "I  hope  you're  done,  so's  we  can 
get  started  doin'  something  like  we  ought  to!  We  got  to 
have  Duke  for  a  tied-up  calf.  We'll  have  to  bring  him  and 
tie  him  out  here  in  front  the  jungle,  and  then  the  panther'll 
come  out  and  jump  on  him.  Wait,  and  I'll  go  bring  him." 

Departing  upon  this  errand,  Penrod  found  Duke  enjoy- 
ing the  declining  rays  of  the  sun  in  the  front  yard. 

"Hyuh,  Duke!"  called  his  master,  in  an  indulgent  tone. 
"Come  on,  good  ole  Dukie !  Come  along !" 

Duke  rose  conscientiously  and  followed  him. 

"I  got  him,  men!"  Penrod  called  from  the  stairway.  "I 
got  our  good  ole  calf  all  ready  to  be  tied  up.  Here  he  is!" 
And  he  appeared  in  the  doorway  with  the  unsuspecting  little 
dog  beside  him. 

Gipsy,  who  had  been  silent  for  some  moments,  instantly 
raised  his  banshee  battlecry,  and  Duke  yelped  in  horror. 
Penrod  made  a  wild  effort  to  hold  him ;  but  Duke  was  not  to 
be  detained.  Unnatural  strength  and  activity  came  to  him 
in  his  delirium,  and,  for  the  second  or  two  that  the  struggle 
lasted,  his  movements  were  too  rapid  for  the  eyes  of  the 
spectators  to  follow — merely  a  whirl  and  blur  in  the  air 
could  be  seen.  Then  followed  a  sound  of  violent  scrambling 
— and  Penrod  sprawled  alone  at  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

"Well,  why'n't  you  come  and  help  me?"  he  demanded  in- 

105 


dignantly.  "I  couldn't  get  him  back  now  if  I  was  to  try  a 
million  years !" 

"What  we  goin'  to  do  about  it?"  Sam  asked. 

Penrod  rose  and  dusted  his  knees.  "We  got  to  get  along 
without  any  tied-up  calf — that's  certain !  But  I  got  to  take 
those  f ortygraphs  some  way  or  other !" 

"Me  an'  Verman  aw  ready  begin  'at  beatin',"  Herman 
suggested.  "You  tole  us  we  the  beaters." 

"Well,  wait  a  minute,"  said  Penrod,  whose  feeling  for 
realism  in  drama  was  always  alert.  "I  want  to  get  a  mighty 
good  pitcher  o'  that  ole  panther  this  time."  As  he  spoke, 
he  threw  open  the  wide  door  intended  for  the  delivery  of 
hay  into  the  loft  from  the  alley  below.  "Now,  bring  the  cage 
over  here  by  this  door  so's  I  can  get  a  better  light ;  it's  get- 
tin'  kind  of  dark  over  where  the  jungle  is.  We'll  pretend 
there  isn't  any  cage  there,  and  soon  as  I  get  him  forty- 
graphed,  I'll  holler,  'Shoot,  men!'  Then  you  must  shoot, 
Sam — and  Herman,  you  and  Verman  must  hammer  on  the 
cage  with  your  spears,  and  holler:  'Hoo!  Hoo!'  and  pre- 
tend you're  spearin'  him." 

"Well,  we  aw  ready!"  said  Herman.  "Hoo!  Hoo!" 

"Wait  a  minute,"  Penrod  interposed,  frowningly  survey- 
ing the  cage.  "I  got  to  squat  too  much  to  get  my  camera 
fixed  right."  He  assumed  various  solemn  poses,  to  be  inter- 
preted as  those  of  a  photographer  studying  his  subject. 
"No,"  he  said  finally;  "it  won't  take  good  that  way." 

"My  goo'ness!"  Herman  exclaimed.  "When  we  goin'  be- 
gin 'at  beatin'?" 

"Here!"  Apparently  Penrod  had  solved  a  weighty  prob- 
lem. "Bring  that  busted  ole  kitchen  chair,  and  set  the 
panther  up  on  it.  There!  That's  the  ticket!  This  way,  it'll 
make  a  mighty  good  pitcher!"  He  turned  to  Sam  im- 
portantly. "Well,  Jim,  is  the  chief  and  all  his  beaters  here?" 

"Yes,  Bill;  all  here,"  Sam  responded,  with  an  air  of 
loyalty. 

"Well,  then,  I  guess  we're  ready,"  said  Penrod,  in  his 
deepest  voice.  "Beat,  men." 

106 


Herman  and  Verman  were  anxious  to  beat.  They  set  up 
the  loudest  uproar  of  which  they  were  capable.  "Hoo !  Hoo ! 
Hoo !"  they  bellowed,  flailing  the  branches  with  their  spears 
and  stamping  heavily  upon  the  floor.  Sam,  carried  away  by 
the  elan  of  the  performance,  was  unable  to  resist  joining 
them.  "Hoo!  Hoo!  Hoo!"  he  shouted.  "Hoo!  Hoo!  Hoo!" 
And  as  the  dust  rose  from  the  floor  to  their  stamping,  the 
three  of  them  produced  such  a  din  and  hoo-hooing  as  could 
be  made  by  nothing  on  earth  except  boys. 

"Back,  men!"  Penrod  called,  raising  his  voice  to  the 
utmost.  "Back  for  your  lives.  The  pa-a-anther!  Now  I'm 
takin'  his  pitcher.  Click,  click!  Shoot,  men;  shoot!" 

"Bing!  Bing!"  shouted  Sam,  levelling  his  gun  at  the 
cage,  while  Herman  and  Verman  hammered  upon  it,  and 
Gipsy  cursed  boys,  the  world  and  the  day  he  was  born. 
"Bing!  Bing!  Bing!" 

"You  missed  him!"  screamed  Penrod.  "Give  me  that 
gun!"  And  snatching  it  from  Sam's  unwilling  hand,  he 
levelled  it  at  the  cage. 

"Bixc !"  he  roared. 

Simultaneously  there  was  the  sound  of  another  report; 
but  this  was  an  actual  one  and  may  best  be  symbolized  by 
the  statement  that  it  was  a  whack.  The  recipient  was  Her- 
man, and,  outrageously  surprised  and  pained,  he  turned 
to  find  himself  face  to  face  with  a  heavily  built  coloured 
woman  who  had  recently  ascended  the  stairs  and  approached 
the  preoccupied  hunters  from  the  rear.  In  her  hand  was 
a  lath,  and,  even  as  Herman  turned,  it  was  again  wielded, 
this  time  upon  Verman. 

"Mammy!" 

"Yes;  you  bettuh  holler,  'Mammy!'"  she  panted.  "My 
goo'ness,  if  yo'  Pappy  don'  lam  you  to-night !  Am'  you  got 
no  mo'  sense  'an  to  let  white  boys  'suade  you  play  you 
Affikin  heathums?  Whah  you  britches?" 

"Yonnuh  Verman's,"  quavered  Herman. 

"Whah  y'own?" 

Choking,  Herman  answered  bravely: 


"  'At  ole  cat  tuck  an'  th'owed  'em  down  cistern !" 

Exasperated  almost  beyond  endurance,  she  lifted  the  lath 
again.  But  unfortunately,  in  order  to  obtain  a  better  field 
of  action,  she  moved  backward  a  little,  coming  in  contact 
with  the  bars  of  the  cage,  a  circumstance  that  she  over- 
looked. More  unfortunately  still,  the  longing  of  the  captive 
to  express  his  feelings  was  such  that  he  would  have  wel- 
comed the  opportunity  to  attack  an  elephant.  He  had  been 
striking  and  scratching  at  inanimate  things  and  at  boys  out 
of  reach  for  the  past  hour;  but  here  at  last  was  his  oppor- 
tunity. He  made  the  most  of  it. 

"I  learn  you  tell  me  cat  th'owed — ooooh!" 

The  coloured  woman  leaped  into  the  air  like  an  athlete, 
and,  turning  with  a  swiftness  astounding  in  one  of  her 
weight,  beheld  the  semaphoric  arm  of  Gipsy  again  extended 
between  the  bars  and  hopefully  reaching  for  her.  Beside 
herself,  she  lifted  her  right  foot  briskly  from  the  ground, 
and  allowed  the  sole  of  her  shoe  to  come  in  contact  with 
Gipsy's  cage. 

The  cage  moved  from  the  tottering  chair  Ibeneath  it.  It 
passed  through  the  yawning  hay-door  and  fell  resoundingly 
to  the  alley  below,  where — as  Penrod  and  Sam,  with  cries 
of  dismay,  rushed  to  the  door  and  looked  down — it  burst 
asunder  and  disgorged  a  large,  bruised  and  chastened  cat. 
Gipsy  paused  and  bent  one  strange  look  upon  the  broken 
box.  Then  he  shook  his  head  and  departed  up  the  alley,  the 
two  boys  watching  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 

Before  they  turned,  a  harrowing  procession  issued  from 
the  carriage-house  doors  beneath  them.  Herman  came  first, 
hurriedly  completing  a  temporary  security  in  Verman's 
trousers.  Verman  followed,  after  a  little  reluctance  that 
departed  coincidentally  with  some  inspiriting  words  from 
the  rear.  He  crossed  the  alley  hastily,  and  his  Mammy 
stalked  behind,  using  constant  eloquence  and  a  frequent 
lath.  They  went  into  the  small  house  across  the  way  and 
closed  the  door. 

Then  Sam  turned  to  Penrod. 

108 


"Penrod,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "was  it  on  account  of 
forty  graphing  in  the  jungle  you  wanted  to  keep  that  cat?" 

"No;  that  was  a  mighty  fine-blooded  cat.  We'd  of  made 
some  money." 

Sam  jeered. 

"You  mean  when  we'd  sell  tickets  to  look  at  it  in  its 
cage?" 

Penrod  shook  his  head,  and  if  Gipsy  could  have  over- 
heard and  understood  his  reply,  that  atrabilious  spirit, 
almost  broken  by  the  events  of  the  day,  might  have  con- 
sidered this  last  blow  the  most  overwhelming  of  all. 

"No,"  said  Penrod;  "when  she  had  kittens." 


109 


— HCr 


A   MODEL   LETTER   TO   A   FRIEND 

ON  MONDAY  morning  Penrod's  faith  in  the  com- 
ing of  another  Saturday  was  flaccid  and  lustreless. 
Those  Japanese  lovers  who  were  promised  a  reunion 
after  ten  thousand  years  in  separate  hells  were  brighter 
with  hope  than  he  was.  On  Monday  Penrod  was  virtually 
an  agnostic. 

Nowhere  upon  his  shining  morning  face  could  have  been 
read  any  eager  anticipation  of  useful  knowledge.  Of  course 
he  had  been  told  that  school  was  for  his  own  good;  in  fact, 
he  had  been  told  and  told  and  told,  but  the  words  convey- 
ing this  information,  meaningless  at  first,  assumed,  with 
each  repetition,  more  and  more  the  character  of  dull  and 
unsolicited  insult. 

110 


He  was  wholly  unable  to  imagine  circumstances,  present 
or  future,  under  which  any  of  the  instruction  and  training 
he  was  now  receiving  could  be  of  the  slightest  possible  use 
or  benefit  to  himself;  and  when  he  was  informed  that  such 
circumstances  would  frequently  arise  in  his  later  life,  he 
but  felt  the  slur  upon  his  coming  manhood  and  its  power 
to  prevent  any  such  unpleasantness. 

If  it  were  possible  to  place  a  romantic  young  Broadway 
actor  and  athlete  under  hushing  supervision  for  six  hours 
a  day,  compelling  him  to  bend  his  unremittent  attention 
upon  the  city  directory  of  Sheboygan,  Wisconsin,  he  could 
scarce  be  expected  to  respond  genially  to  frequent  state- 
ments that  the  compulsion  was  all  for  his  own  good.  On  the 
contrary,  it  might  be  reasonable  to  conceive  his  response 
as  taking  the  form  of  action,  which  is  precisely  the  form 
that  Penrod's  smouldering  impulse  yearned  to  take. 

To  Penrod  school  was  merely  a  state  of  confinement,  en- 
venomed by  mathematics.  For  interminable  periods  he  was 
forced  to  listen  to  information  concerning  matters  about 
which  he  had  no  curiosity  whatever;  and  he  had  to  read 
over  and  over  the  dullest  passages  in  books  that  bored  him 
into  stupors,  while  always  there  overhung  the  preposterous 
task  of  improvising  plausible  evasions  to  conceal  the  fact 
that  he  did  not  know  what  he  had  no  wish  to  know.  Like- 
wise, he  must  always  be  prepared  to  avoid  incriminating 
replies  to  questions  that  he  felt  nobody  had  a  real  and 
natural  right  to  ask  him.  And  when  his  gorge  rose  and  his 
inwards  revolted,  the  hours  became  a  series  of  ignoble  mis- 
adventures and  petty  disgraces  strikingly  lacking  in 
privacy. 

It  was  usually  upon  Wednesday  that  his  sufferings  cul- 
minated ;  the  nervous  strength  accumulated  during  the  holi- 
day hours  at  the  end  of  the  week  would  carry  him  through 
Monday  and  Tuesday;  but  by  Wednesday  it  seemed  ulti- 
mately proven  that  the  next  Saturday  actually  never  was 
coming,  "this  time",  and  the  strained  spirit  gave  way. 
Wednesday  was  the  day  averaging  highest  in  Penrod's  list 

111 


of  absences;  but  the  time  came  when  he  felt  that  the  ad- 
vantages attendant  upon  his  Wednesday  "sick  headache" 
did  not  compensate  for  its  inconveniences. 

For  one  thing,  this  illness  had  become  so  symmetrically 
recurrent  that  even  the  cook  felt  that  he  was  pushing  it  too 
far,  and  the  liveliness  of  her  expression,  when  he  was  able 
to  leave  his  couch  and  take  the  air  in  the  backyard  at  about 
ten  o'clock,  became  more  disagreeable  to  him  with  each 
convalescence.  There  visibly  increased,  too,  about  the  whole 
household,  an  atmosphere  of  uncongeniality  and  suspicion 
so  pronounced  that  every  successive  illness  was  necessarily 
more  severe,  and  at  last  the  patient  felt  obliged  to  remain 
bedded  until  almost  eleven,  from  time  to  time  giving  forth 
pathetic  little  sounds  eloquent  of  anguish  triumphing  over 
Stoic  endurance,  yet  lacking  a  certain  conviction  of  utter- 
ance. 

Finally,  his  father  enacted,  and  his  mother  applied,  a 
new  and  distinctly  special  bit  of  legislation,  explaining  it 
with  simple  candour  to  the  prospective  beneficiary. 

"Whenever  you  really  are  sick,"  they  said,  "you  can  go 
out  and  play  as  soon  as  you're  well — that  is,  if  it  happens 
on  Saturday.  But  when  you're  sick  on  a  school-day,  you'll 
stay  in  bed  till  the  next  morning.  This  is  going  to  do  you 
good,  Penrod." 

Physically,  their  opinion  appeared  to  be  affirmed,  for 
Wednesday  after  Wednesday  passed  without  any  recur- 
rence of  the  attack;  but  the  spiritual  strain  may  have  been 
damaging.  And  it  should  be  added  that  if  Penrod's  higher 
nature  did  suffer  from  the  strain,  he  was  not  unique.  For, 
confirming  the  effect  of  Wednesday  upon  boys  in  general,  it 
is  probable  that,  if  full  statistics  concerning  cats  were  avail- 
able, they  would  show  that  cats  dread  Wednesdays,  and  that 
their  fear  is  shared  by  other  animals,  and  would  be  shared, 
to  an  extent  by  windows,  if  windows  possessed  nervous  sys- 
tems. Nor  must  this  probable  apprehension  on  the  part  of 
cats  and  the  like  be  thought  mere  superstition.  Cats  have 
superstitions,  it  is  true;  but  certain  actions  inspired  by  the 


sight  of  a  boy  with  a  missile  in  his  hand  are  better  evidence 
of  the  workings  of  logic  upon  a  practical  nature  than  of 
faith  in  the  supernatural. 

Moreover,  the  attention  of  family  physicians  and 
specialists  should  be  drawn  to  these  significant  though  ob- 
scure phenomena ;  for  the  suffering  of  cats  is  a  barometer  of 
the  nerve-pressure  of  boys,  and  it  may  be  accepted  as 
sufficiently  established  that  Wednesday — after  school-hours 
— is  the  worst  time  for  cats. 

After  the  promulgation  of  that  parental  edict,  "You'll 
stay  in  bed  till  the  next  morning",  four  weeks  went  by  un- 
flawed  by  a  single  absence  from  the  field  of  duty ;  but,  when 
the  fifth  Wednesday  came,  Penrod  held  sore  debate  within 
himself  before  he  finally  rose.  In  fact,  after  rising,  and  while 
actually  engaged  with  his  toilet,  he  tentatively  emitted  the 
series  of  little  moans  that  was  his  wonted  preliminary  to  a 
quiet  holiday  at  home;  and  the  sound  was  heard  (as  in- 
tended) by  Mr.  Schofield,  who  was  passing  Penrod's  door 
on  his  way  to  breakfast. 

" All  right!"  the  father  said,  making  use  of  peculiar  and 
unnecessary  emphasis.  "Stay  in  bed  till  to-morrow  morn- 
ing. Castor-oil,  this  time,  too." 

Penrod  had  not  hoped  much  for  his  experiment;  never- 
theless his  rebellious  blood  was  sensibly  inflamed  by  the 
failure,  and  he  accompanied  his  dressing  with  a  low  mur- 
muring— apparently  a  bitter  dialogue  between  himself  and 
some  unknown  but  powerful  patron. 

Thus  he  muttered: 

"Well,  they  better  not!"  "Well,  what  can  I  do  about  it?" 
"Well,  Fd  show  'em!"  "Well,  I  will  show  'em!"  "Well,  you 
ought  to  show  'em;  that's  the  way  /  do!  I  just  shake  'em 
around,  and  say-,  'Here !  I  guess  you  don't  know  who  you're 
talkin'  to  like  that!  You  better  look  out!'"  "Well,  that's 
the  way  /'m  goin'  to  do !"  "Well,  go  on  and  do  it,  then !" 
"Well,  I  am  goin' " 

The  door  of  the  next  room  was  slightly  ajar;  now  it 
swung  wide,  and  Margaret  appeared. 

113 


"Penrod,  what  on  earth  are  you  talking  about?" 

"Nothin'.  None  o'  your " 

"Well,  hurry  to  breakfast,  then ;  it's  getting  late." 

Lightly  she  went,  humming  a  tune,  leaving  the  door  of 
her  room  open,  and  the  eyes  of  Penrod,  as  he  donned  his 
jacket,  chanced  to  fall  upon  her  desk,  where  she  had 
thoughtlessly  left  a  letter — a  private  missive  just  begun, 
and  intended  solely  for  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Robert  Williams,  a 
senior  at  a  far  university. 

In  such  a  fashion  is  coincidence  the  architect  of  misfor- 
tune. Penrod's  class  in  English  composition  had  been  in- 
structed, the  previous  day,  to  concoct  at  home  and  bring  to 
class  on  Wednesday  morning,  "a  model  letter  to  a  friend 
on  some  subject  of  general  interest."  Penalty  for  omission 
to  perform  this  simple  task  was  definite ;  whosoever  brought 
no  letter  would  inevitably  be  "kept  in"  after  school,  that 
afternoon,  until  the  letter  was  written,  and  it  was  precisely 
a  premonition  of  this  misfortune  that  had  prompted  Pen- 
rod  to  attempt  his  experimental  moaning  upon  his  father, 
for,  alas !  he  had  equipped  himself  with  no  model  letter,  nor 
any  letter  whatever. 

In  stress  of  this  kind,  a  boy's  creed  is  that  anything  is 
worth  a  try;  but  his  eye  for  details  is  poor.  He  sees  the 
future  too  sweepingly  and  too  much  as  he  would  have  it, 
seldom  providing  against  inconsistencies  of  evidence  that 
may  damage  him.  For  instance,  there  is  a  well-known  case 
of  two  brothers  who  exhibited  to  their  parents,  with 
pathetic  confidence,  several  imported  dried  herring  on  a 
string,  as  a  proof  that  the  afternoon  had  been  spent,  not  at 
a  forbidden  circus,  but  with  hook  and  line  upon  the  banks 
of  a  neighbouring  brook. 

So  with  Penrod.  He  had  vital  need  of  a  letter,  and  there, 
before  his  eyes,  upon  Margaret's  desk,  was  apparently  the 
precise  thing  he  needed! 

From  below  rose  the  voice  of  his  mother  urging  him  to 
the  breakfast-table,  warning  him  that  he  stood  in  danger 
of  tardiness  at  school;  he  was  pressed  for  time,  and  acted 

114 


upon  an  inspiration  that  failed  to  prompt  him  even  to  read 
the  letter. 

Hurriedly  he  wrote  "Dear  f  reind"  at  the  top  of  the  page 
Margaret  had  partially  filled.  Then  he  signed  himself 
"Yours  respectfuly,  Penrod  Schofield"  at  the  bottom,  and 
enclosed  the  missive  within  a  battered  volume  entitled, 
"Principles  of  English  Composition."  With  that  and  other 
books  compacted  by  a  strap,  he  descended  to  a  breakfast 
somewhat  oppressive  but  undarkened  by  any  misgivings 
concerning  a  "letter  to  a  friend  on  some  subject  of  general 
interest."  He  felt  that  a  difficulty  had  been  encountered  and 
satisfactorily  disposed  of;  the  matter  could  now  be  dis- 
missed from  his  mind.  He  had  plenty  of  other  difficulties  to 
take  its  place. 

No;  he  had  no  misgivings,  nor  was  he  assailed  by  any- 
thing unpleasant  in  that  line,  even  when  the  hour  struck 
for  the  class  in  English  composition.  If  he  had  been  two  or 
three  years  older,  experience  might  have  warned  him  to 
take  at  least  the  precaution  of  copying  his  offering,  so  that 
it  would  appear  in  his  own  handwriting  when  he  "handed  it 
in" ;  but  Penrod  had  not  even  glanced  at  it. 

"I  think,"  Miss  Spence  said,  "I  will  ask  several  of  you 
to  read  your  letters  aloud  before  you  hand  them  in.  Clara 
Raypole,  you  may  read  yours." 

Penrod  was  bored  but  otherwise  comfortable;  he  had  no 
apprehension  that  he  might  be  included  in  the  ''several", 
especially  as  Miss  Spence's  beginning  with  Clara  Raypole, 
a  star  performer,  indicated  that  her  selection  of  readers 
would  be  made  from  the  conscientious  and  proficient  division 
at  the  head  of  the  class.  He  listened  stoically  to  the  begin- 
ning of  the  first  letter,  though  he  was  conscious  of  a  dull 
resentment,  inspired  mainly  by  the  perfect  complacency  of 
Miss  Raypole's  voice. 

"  'Dear  Cousin  Sadie,'  "  she  began  smoothly,  "  'I  thought 
I  would  write  you  to-day  on  some  subject  of  general  inter- 
est, and  so  I  thought  I  would  tell  you  about  the  subject  of 
our  court-house.  It  is  a  very  fine  building  situated  in  the 

115 


centre  of  the  city,  and  a  visit  to  the  building  after  school 
hours  well  repays  for  the  visit.  Upon  entrance  we  find  upon 
our  left  the  office  of  the  county  clerk  and  upon  our  right 
a  number  of  windows  affording  a  view  of  the  street.  And  so 
we  proceed,  finding  on  both  sides  much  of  general  interest. 
The  building  was  begun  in  1886  A.  D.  and  it  was  through  in 
1887  A.  D.  It  is  four  stories  high  and  made  of  stone,  pressed 
brick,  wood,  and  tiles,  with  a  tower,  or  cupola,  one  hundred 
and  twenty-seven  feet  seven  inches  from  the  ground.  Among 
other  subjects  of  general  interest  told  by  the  janitor,  we 
learn  that  the  architect  of  the  building  was  a  man  named 
Flanner,  and  the  foundations  extend  fifteen  feet  five  inches 
under  the  ground ' ' 

Penrod  was  unable  to  fix  his  attention  upon  these 
statistics;  he  began  moodily  to  twist  a  button  of  his  jacket 
and  to  concentrate  a  new-born  and  obscure  but  lasting 
hatred  upon  the  court-house.  Miss  Ray  pole's  glib  voice  con- 
tinued to  press  upon  his  ears ;  but,  by  keeping  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  twisting  button  he  had  accomplished  a  kind  of  self- 
hypnosis,  or  mental  anaesthesia,  and  was  but  dimly  aware  of 
what  went  on  about  him. 

The  court-house  was  finally  exhausted  by  its  visitor,  who 
resumed  her  seat  and  submitted  with  beamish  grace  to 
praise.  Then  Miss  Spence  said,  in  a  favourable  manner: 

"Georgie  Bassett,  you  may  read  your  letter  next." 

The  neat  Georgie  rose,  nothing  loath,  and  began :  "  'Dear 
Teacher ' " 

There  was  a  slight  titter,  which  Miss  Spence  suppressed. 
Georgie  was  not  at  all  discomfited. 

"  'My  mother  says,' "  he  continued,  reading  his  manu- 
script, "  'we  should  treat  our  teacher  as  a  friend,  and  so  7 
will  write  you  a  letter.' ' 

This  penetrated  Penrod's  trance,  and  he  lifted  his  eyes 
to  fix  them  upon  the  back  of  Georgie  Bassett's  head  in  a 
long  and  inscrutable  stare.  It  was  inscrutable,  and  yet  if 
Georgie  had  been  sensitive  to  thought  waves,  it  is  probable 

116 


that  he  would  have  uttered  a  loud  shriek;  but  he  remained 
placidly  unaware,  continuing: 

"  'I  thought  I  would  write  you  about  a  subject  of  gen- 
eral interest,  and  so  I  will  write  you  about  the  flowers. 
There  are  many  kinds  of  flowers,  spring  flowers,  and  sum- 
mer flowers,  and  autumn  flowers,  but  no  winter  flowers. 
Wild  flowers  grow  in  the  woods,  and  it  is  nice  to  hunt  them 
in  springtime,  and  we  must  remember  to  give  some  to  the 
poor  and  hospitals,  also.  Flowers  can  be  made  to  grow 
in  flower-beds  and  placed  in  vases  in  houses.  There  are  many 
names  for  flowers,  but  /  call  them  "nature's  orna- 
ments"  * " 

Penrod's  gaze  had  relaxed,  drooped  to  his  button  again, 
and  his  lethargy  was  renewed.  The  outer  world  grew 
vaguer;  voices  seemed  to  drone  at  a  distance;  sluggish  time 
passed  heavily — but  some  of  it  did  pass. 

"Penrod!" 

Miss  Spence's  searching  eye  had  taken  note  of  the  bent 
head  and  the  twisting  button.  She  found  it  necessary  to 
speak  again. 

"Penrod  Schofield!" 

He  came  languidly  to  life. 

"Ma'am?" 

"You  may  read  your  letter." 

"Yes'm." 

And  he  began  to  paw  clumsily  among  his  books,  where- 
upon Miss  Spence's  glance  fired  with  suspicion. 

"Have  you  prepared  one?"  she  demanded. 

"Yes'm,"  said  Penrod  dreamily. 

"But  you're  going  to  find  you  forgot  to  bring  it,  aren't 
you?" 

"I  got  it,"  said  Penrod,  discovering  the  paper  in  his 
"Principles  of  English  Composition." 

"Well,  we'll  listen  to  what  you've  found  time  to  prepare," 
she  said,  adding  coldly,  "for  once!" 

The  frankest  pessimism  concerning  Penrod  permeated 
the  whole  room ;  even  the  eyes  of  those  whose  letters  had  not 

117 


met  with  favour  turned  upon  him  with  obvious  assurance 
that  here  was  every  prospect  of  a  performance  that  would, 
by  comparison,  lend  a  measure  of  credit  to  the  worst  pre- 
ceding it.  But  Penrod  was  unaffected  by  the  general  gaze; 
he  rose,  still  blinking  from  his  lethargy,  and  in  no  true 
sense  wholly  alive. 

He  had  one  idea:  to  read  as  rapidly  as  possible,  so  as  to 
be  done  with  the  task,  and  he  began  in  a  high-pitched  mono- 
tone, reading  with  a  blind  mind  and  no  sense  of  the  sig- 
nificance of  the  words. 

"  'Dear  friend,'  "  he  declaimed.  "  'You  call  me  beautiful, 
but  I  am  not  really  beautiful,  and  there  are  times  when  I 
doubt  if  I  am  even  pretty,  though  perhaps  my  hair  is 
beautiful,  and  if  it  is  true  that  my  eyes  are  like  blue  stars 
in  heaven ' ' 

Simultaneously  he  lost  his  breath  and  there  burst  upon 
him  a  perception  of  the  results  to  which  he  was  being  com- 
mitted by  this  calamitous  reading.  And  also  simultaneous 
was  the  outbreak  of  the  class  into  cachinnations  of  delight, 
severely  repressed  by  the  perplexed  but  indignant  Miss 
Spence. 

"Go  on!"  she  commanded  grimly,  when  she  had  restored 
order. 

"Ma'am?"  he  gulped,  looking  wretchedly  upon  the  rosy 
faces  all  about  him. 

"Go  on  with  the  description  of  yourself,"  she  said.  "We'd 
like  to  hear  some  more  about  your  eyes  being  like  blue  stars 
in  heaven." 

Here  many  of  Penrod's  little  comrades  were  forced  to 
clasp  their  faces  tightly  in  both  hands;  and  his  dismayed 
gaze,  in  refuge,  sought  the  treacherous  paper  in  his  hand. 

What  it  beheld  there  was  horrible. 

"Proceed!"  Miss  Spence  said. 

"  'I— often  think,'  "  he  faltered,  "  'and  a-a  tree-more  thu- 
thrills  my  bein'  when  I  recall  your  last  words  to  me  that 
last— that  last— that '  " 

"Go  on!" 

118 


"  'That  last  evening  in  the  moonlight  when  you — you — 
you- 

"Penrod,"  Miss  Spence  said  dangerously,  "you  go  on,  and 
stop  that  stammering." 

"  'You — you  said  you  would  wait  for — for  years  to — to — 
to — to '  " 

"Penrod!" 

"  'To  win  me !'  "  the  miserable  Penrod  managed  to  gasp. 
"  'I  should  not  have  pre — premitted — permitted  you  to 
speak  so  until  we  have  our — our  parents'  con-consent;  but 

oh,  how  sweet  it '  "  He  exhaled  a  sigh  of  agony,  and 

then  concluded  briskly,  "  'Yours  respectfully,  Penrod  Scho- 
field.'  " 

But  Miss  Spence  had  at  last  divined  something,  for  she 
knew  the  Schofield  family. 

"Bring  me  that  letter!"  she  said. 

And  the  scarlet  boy  passed  forward  between  rows  of 
mystified  but  immoderately  uplifted  children. 

Miss  Spence  herself  grew  rather  pink  as  she  examined  the 
missive,  and  the  intensity  with  which  she  afterward  ex- 
tended her  examination  to  cover  the  complete  field  of  Pen- 
rod  Schofield  caused  him  to  find  a  remote  centre  of  interest 
whereon  to  rest  his  embarrassed  gaze.  She  let  him  stand 
before  her  throughout  a  silence,  equalled,  perhaps,  by  the 
tenser  pauses  during  trials  for  murder,  and  then,  con- 
taining herself,  she  sweepingly  gestured  him  to  the  pillory 
— a  chair  upon  the  platform,  facing  the  school. 

Here  he  suffered  for  the  unusual  term  of  an  hour,  with 
many  jocular  and  cunning  eyes  constantly  upon  him;  and, 
when  he  was  released  at  noon,  horrid  shouts  and  shrieks 
pursued  him  every  step  of  his  homeward  way.  For  his 
laughter-loving  little  schoolmates  spared  him  not — neither 
boy  nor  girl. 

"Yay,  Penrod!"  they  shouted.  "How's  your  beautiful 
hair?"  And,  "Hi,  Penrod!  When  you  goin'  to  get  your 
parents'  consent?"  And,  "Say,  blue  stars  in  heaven,  how's 
your  beautiful  eyes?"  And,  "Say,  Penrod,  how's  your  tree- 

119 


mores?"  "Does  your  tree-mores  thrill  your  bein',  Penrod?" 
And  many  other  facetious  inquiries,  hard  to  bear  in  public. 
And  when  he  reached  the  temporary  shelter  of  his  home, 
he  experienced  no  relief  upon  finding  that  Margaret  was  out 
for  lunch.  He  was  as  deeply  embittered  toward  her  as 
toward  any  other,  and,  considering  her  largely  responsible 
for  his  misfortune,  he  would  have  welcomed  an  opportunity 
to  show  her  what  he  thought  of  her. 


120 


WEDNESDAY    MADNESS 

HOW  long  he  was  "kept  in"  after  school  that  after- 
noon is  not  a  matter  of  record ;  but  it  was  long.  Be- 
fore he  finally  appeared  upon  the  street,  he  had 
composed  an  ample  letter  on  a  subject  of  general  interest, 
namely  "School  Life",  under  the  supervision  of  Miss 
Spence;  he  had  also  received  some  scorching  admonitions  in 
respect  to  honourable  behaviour  regarding  other  people's 
letters;  and  Margaret's  had  been  returned  to  him  with 
severe  instructions  to  bear  it  straight  to  the  original  owner 
accompanied  by  full  confession  and  apology.  As  a  measure 
of  insurance  that  these  things  be  done,  Miss  Spence  stated 
definitely  her  intention  to  hold  a  conversation  by  telephone 


with  Margaret  that  evening.  Altogether,  the  day  had  been 
unusually  awful,  even  for  Wednesday,  and  Penrod  left  the 
school-house  with  the  heart  of  an  anarchist  throbbing  in 
his  hot  bosom.  It  were  more  accurate,  indeed,  to  liken  him 
to  the  anarchist's  characteristic  weapon;  for  as  Penrod 
came  out  to  the  street  he  was,  in  all  inward  respects,  a  bomb, 
loaded  and  ticking. 

He  walked  moodily,  with  a  visible  aspect  of  soreness.  A 
murmurous  sound  was  thick  about  his  head,  wherefore  it  is 
to  be  surmised  that  he  communed  with  his  familiar,  and  one 
vehement,  oft-repeated  phrase  beat  like  a  tocsin  of  revolt 
upon  the  air :  "Daw-gone  'em !" 

He  meant  everybody — the  universe. 

Particularly  included,  evidently,  was  a  sparrow,  offen- 
sively cheerful  upon  a  lamp-post.  This  self-centred  little 
bird  allowed  a  pebble  to  pass  overhead  and  remained  un- 
concerned, but,  a  moment  later,  feeling  a  jar  beneath  his 
feet,  and  hearing  the  tinkle  of  falling  glass,  he  decided  to 
leave.  Similarly,  and  at  the  same  instant,  Penrod  made  the 
same  decision,  and  the  sparrow  in  flight  took  note  of  a  boy 
likewise  in  flight. 

The  boy  disappeared  into  the  nearest  alley  and  emerged 
therefrom,  breathless,  in  the  peaceful  vicinity  of  his  own 
home.  He  entered  the  house,  clumped  upstairs  and  down, 
discovered  Margaret  reading  a  book  in  the  library,  and 
flung  the  accursed  letter  toward  her  with  loathing. 

"You  can  take  the  old  thing,"  he  said  bitterly.  "/  don't 
want  it!" 

And  before  she  was  able  to  reply,  he  was  out  of  the 
room.  The  next  moment  he  was  out  of  the  house. 

"T)&w-gone  5em!"  he  said. 

And  then,  across  the  street,  his  soured  eye  fell  upon  his 
true  comrade  and  best  friend  leaning  against  a  picket  fence 
and  holding  desultory  converse  with  Mabel  Rorebeck,  an 
attractive  member  of  the  Friday  Afternoon  Dancing  Class, 
that  hated  organization  of  which  Sam  and  Penrod  were  both 


members.  Mabel  was  a  shy  little  girl;  but  Penrod  had  a 
vague  understanding  that  Sam  considered  her  two  brown 
pigtails  beautiful. 

Howbeit,  Sam  had  never  told  his  love;  he  was,  in  fact, 
sensitive  about  it.  This  meeting  with  the  lady  was  by  chance, 
and,  although  it  afforded  exquisite  moments,  his  heart  was 
beating  in  an  unaccustomed  manner,  and  he  was  suffering 
from  embarrassment,  being  at  a  loss,  also,  for  subjects  of 
conversation.  It  is,  indeed,  no  easy  matter  to  chat  easily 
with  a  person,  however  lovely  and  beloved,  who  keeps  her 
face  turned  the  other  way,  maintains  one  foot  in  rapid  and 
continuous  motion  through  an  arc  seemingly  perilous  to 
her  equilibrium,  and  confines  her  responses,  both  affirma- 
tive and  negative,  to  "Uh-huh." 

Altogether,  Sam  was  sufficiently  nervous  without  any 
help  from  Penrod,  and  it  was  with  pure  horror  that  he 
heard  his  own  name  and  Mabel's  shrieked  upon  the  ambient 
air  with  viperish  insinuation. 

"Sam-my  and  May-bul!  Oh,  oh!" 

Sam  started  violently.  Mabel  ceased  to  swing  her  foot, 
and  both,  encarnadined,  looked  up  and  down  and  every- 
where for  the  invisible  but  well-known  owner  of  that  voice. 
It  came  again,  in  taunting  mockery: 

"Sammy's  mad,  and  I  am  glad, 

And  I  know  what  will  please  him: 
A  bottle  o'  wine  to  make  him  shine, 
And  Mabel  Rorebeck  to  squeeze  him!" 

"Fresh  ole  thing!"  said  Miss  Rorebeck,  becoming  articu- 
late. And  unreasonably  including  Sam  in  her  indignation, 
she  tossed  her  head  at  him  with  an  unmistakable  effect  of 
scorn.  She  began  to  walk  away. 

"Well,  Mabel,"  Sam  said  plaintively,  following,  "it  ain't 
my  fault.  /  didn't  do  anything.  It's  Penrod." 

"123 


"I  don't  care,"  she  began  pettishly,  when  the  viperish 
voice  was  again  lifted: 

"Oh,  oh,  oh! 
Who's  your  beau? 
Guess  /  know : 

Mabel  and  Sammy,  oh,  oh,  oh! 
/  caught  you!" 

Then  Mabel  did  one  of  those  things  that  eternally  per- 
plex the  slower  sex.  She  deliberately  made  a  face,  not  at 
the  tree  behind  which  Penrod  was  lurking,  but  at  the  inno- 
cent and  heart-wrung  Sam.  "You  needn't  come  limpin'  after 
me,  Sam  Williams !"  she  said,  though  Sam  was  approaching 
upon  two  perfectly  sound  legs.  And  then  she  ran  away  at 
the  top  of  her  speed. 

"Run,  nigger,  run!"  Penrod  began  inexcusably.  But 
Sam  cut  the  persecutions  short  at  this  point.  Stung  to  fury, 
he  charged  upon  the  sheltering  tree  in  the  Schofields'  yard. 

Ordinarily,  at  such  a  juncture,  Penrod  would  have  fled, 
keeping  his  own  temper  and  increasing  the  heat  of  his  pur- 
suer's by  back-flung  jeers.  But  this  was  Wednesday,  and 
he  was  in  no  mood  to  run  from  Sam.  He  stepped  away  from 
the  tree,  awaiting  the  onset. 

"Well,  what  you  goin'  to  do  so  much?"  he  said. 

Sam  did  not  pause  to  proffer  the  desired  information. 
"Tcha  got'ny  sense!"  was  the  total  extent  of  his  vocal  pre- 
liminaries before  flinging  himself  headlong  upon  the 
taunter;  and  the  two  boys  went  to  the  ground  together. 
Embracing,  they  rolled,  they  pommelled,  they  hammered, 
they  kicked.  Alas,  this  was  a  fight. 

They  rose,  flailing  a  while,  then  renewed  their  embrace, 
and,  grunting,  bestowed  themselves  anew  upon  our  ever 
too  receptive  Mother  Earth.  Once  more  upon  their  feet, 
they  beset  each  other  sorely,  dealing  many  great  blows, 
ofttimes  upon  the  air,  but  with  sufficient  frequency  upon 
resentful  flesh.  Tears  were  jolted  to  the  rims  of  eyes,  but 


technically  they  did  not  weep.  "Got'ny  sense,"  was  repeated 
chokingly  many,  many  times;  also,  "Bern  ole  fool!"  and, 
"I'll  show  you!" 

The  peacemaker  who  appeared  upon  the  animated  scene 
was  Penrod's  great-uncle  Slocum.  This  elderly  relative  had 
come  to  call  upon  Mrs.  Schofield,  and  he  was  well  upon  his 
way  to  the  front  door  when  the  mutterings  of  war  among 
some  shrubberies  near  the  fence  caused  him  to  deflect  his 
course  in  benevolent  agitation. 

"Boys!  Boys!  Shame,  boys!"  he  said;  but,  as  the  origi- 
nality of  these  expressions  did  not  prove  striking  enough 
to  attract  any  great  attention  from  the  combatants,  he 
felt  obliged  to  assume  a  share  in  the  proceedings.  It  was 
a  share  entailing  greater  activity  than  he  had  anticipated, 
and,  before  he  managed  to  separate  the  former  friends,  he 
intercepted  bodily  an  amount  of  violence  to  which  he  was 
wholly  unaccustomed.  Additionally,  his  attire  was  disar- 
ranged ;  his  hat  was  no  longer  upon  his  head,  and  his  temper 
was  in  a  bad  way.  In  fact,  as  his  hat  flew  off,  he  made  use 
of  words  that  under  less  extreme  circumstances  would  have 
caused  both  boys  to  feel  a  much  profounder  interest  than 
they  did  in  great-uncle  Slocum. 

"I'll  get  you!"  Sam  babbled.  "Don't  you  ever  dare  to 
speak  to  me  again,  Penrod  Schofield,  long  as  you  live,  or 
I'll  whip  you  worse'n  I  have  this  time !" 

Penrod  squawked.  For  the  moment  he  was  incapable  of 
coherent  speech,  and  then,  failing  in  a  convulsive  attempt 
to  reach  his  enemy,  his  fury  culminated  upon  an  innocent 
object  that  had  never  done  him  the  slightest  harm.  Great- 
uncle  Slocum's  hat  lay  upon  the  ground  close  by,  and 
Penrod  was  in  the  state  of  irritation  that  seeks  an  outlet  too 
blindly — as  people  say,  he  "had  to  do  something!"  He 
kicked  great-uncle  Slocum's  hat  with  such  sweep  and  pre- 
cision that  it  rose  swiftly,  and,  breasting  the  autumn  breeze, 
passed  over  the  fence  and  out  into  the  street. 

Great-uncle  Slocum  uttered  a  scream  of  anguish,  and, 
immediately  ceasing  to  peacemake,  ran  forth  to  a  more 

125 


important  rescue;  but  the  conflict  was  not  renewed.  Sanity 
had  returned  to  Sam  Williams ;  he  was  awed  by  this  colossal 
deed  of  Penrod's  and  filled  with  horror  at  the  thought  that 
he  might  be  held  as  accessory  to  it.  Fleetly  he  fled,  pursued 
as  far  as  the  gate  by  the  whole  body  of  Penrod,  and  there- 
after by  Penrod's  voice  alone. 

"You  better  run!  You  wait  till  I  catch  you!  You'll  see 
what  you  get  next  time!  Don't  you  ever  speak  to  me  again 
as  long  as  you " 

Here  he  paused  abruptly,  for  great-uncle  Slocum  had 
recovered  his  hat  and  was  returning  toward  the  gate.  After 
one  glance  at  great-uncle  Slocum,  Penrod  did  not  linger  to 
attempt  any  explanation — there  are  times  when  even  a  boy 
can  see  that  apologies  would  seem  out  of  place.  Penrod  ran 
round  the  house  to  the  backyard. 

Here  he  was  enthusiastically  greeted  by  Duke.  "You  get 
away  from  me!"  Penrod  said  hoarsely,  and  with  terrible 
gestures  he  repulsed  the  faithful  animal,  who  retired  philo- 
sophically to  the  stable,  while  his  master  let  himself  out  of 
the  back  gate.  Penrod  had  decided  to  absent  himself  from 
home  for  the  time  being. 

The  sky  was  gray,  and  there  were  hints  of  coming 
dusk  in  the  air ;  it  was  an  hour  suited  to  his  turbulent  soul, 
and  he  walked  with  a  sombre  swagger.  "Ran  like  a  c'ardy- 
calf !"  he  sniffed,  half  aloud,  alluding  to  the  haste  of  Sam 
Williams  in  departure.  "All  he  is,  ole  c'ardy-calf !" 

Then,  as  he  proceeded  up  the  alley,  a  hated  cry  smote 
his  ears:  "Hi,  Penrod!  How's  your  tree-mores?"  And  two 
jovial  schoolboy  faces  appeared  above  a  high  board  fence. 
"How's  your  beautiful  hair,  Penrod?"  they  vociferated. 
"When  you  goin'  to  git  your  parents'  consent?  What  makes 
you  think  you're  only  pretty,  ole  blue  stars?" 

Penrod  looked  about  feverishly  for  a  missile,  and  could 
find  none  to  his  hand,  but  the  surface  of  the  alley  sufficed; 
he  made  mud  balls  and  fiercely  bombarded  the  vociferous 
fence.  Naturally,  hostile  mud  balls  presently  issued  from 
behind  this  barricade;  and  thus  a  campaign  developed  that 

126 


offered  a  picture  not  unlike  a  cartoonist's  sketch  of  a 
political  campaign,  wherein  this  same  material  is  used  for 
the  decoration  of  opponents.  But  Penrod  had  been  unwise; 
he  was  outnumbered,  and  the  hostile  forces  held  the  ad- 
vantageous side  of  the  fence. 

Mud  balls  can  be  hard  as  well  as  soggy;  some  of  those 
that  reached  Penrod  were  of  no  inconsiderable  weight  and 
substance,  and  they  made  him  grunt  despite  himself. 
Finally,  one,  at  close  range,  struck  him  in  the  pit  of  the 
stomach,  whereupon  he  clasped  himself  about  the  middle 
silently,  and  executed  some  steps  in  seeming  imitation  of  a 
quaint  Indian  dance. 

His  plight  being  observed  through  a  knothole,  his 
enemies  climbed  upon  the  fence  and  regarded  him  seriously. 

"Aw,  you're  all  right,  ain't  you,  old  tree-mores?"  in- 
quired one. 

"I'll  show  you !"  bellowed  Penrod,  recovering  his  breath ; 
and  he  hurled  a  fat  ball — thoughtfully  retained  in  hand 
throughout  his  agony — to  such  effect  that  his  interrogator 
disappeared  backward  from  the  fence  without  having  taken 
any  initiative  of  his  own  in  the  matter.  His  comrade  im- 
pulsively joined  him  upon  the  ground,  and  the  battle  con- 
tinued. 

Through  the  gathering  dusk  it  went  on.  It  waged  but 
the  hotter  as  darkness  made  aim  more  difficult — and  still 
Penrod  would  not  be  driven  from  the  field.  Panting,  grunt- 
ing, hoarse  from  returning  insults,  fighting  on  and  on,  an 
indistinguishable  figure  in  the  gloom,  he  held  the  back  alley 
against  all  comers. 

For  such  a  combat  darkness  has  one  great  advantage; 
but  it  has  an  equally  important  disadvantage — the  com- 
batant cannot  see  to  aim;  on  the  other  hand,  he  cannot  see 
to  dodge.  And  all  the  while  Penrod  was  receiving  two  for 
one.  He  became  heavy  with  mud.  Plastered,  impressionistic 
and  sculpturesque,  there  was  about  him  a  quality  of  the 
tragic,  of  the  magnificent.  He  resembled  a  sombre  master- 

127 


piece  by  Rodin.  No  one  could  have  been  quite  sure  what 
he  was  meant  for. 

Dinner  bells  tinkled  in  houses.  Then  they  were  rung 
from  kitchen  doors.  Calling  voices  came  urging  from  the 
distance,  calling  boys'  names  into  the  darkness.  They  called, 
and  a  note  of  irritation  seemed  to  mar  their  beauty. 

Then  bells  were  rung  again — and  the  voices  renewed 
appeals  more  urgent,  much  more  irritated.  They  called 
and  called  and  called. 

Thud!  went  the  mud  balls. 

Thud!  Thud!  Blunk! 

"Oof!"  said  Penrod. 

.  .  .  Sam  Williams,  having  dined  with  his  family  at 
their  usual  hour,  seven,  slipped  unostentatiously  out  of  the 
kitchen  door,  as  soon  as  he  could,  after  the  conclusion  of 
the  meal,  and  quietly  betook  himself  to  the  Schofields' 
corner. 

Here  he  stationed  himself  where  he  could  see  all  avenues 
of  approach  to  the  house,  and  waited.  Twenty  minutes 
went  by,  and  then  Sam  became  suddenly  alert  and  atten- 
tive, for  the  arc-light  revealed  a  small,  grotesque  figure 
slowly  approaching  along  the  sidewalk.  It  was  brown  in 
colour,  shaggy  and  indefinite  in  form;  it  limped  exces- 
sively, and  paused  to  rub  itself,  and  to  meditate. 

Peculiar  as  the  thing  was,  Sam  had  no  doubt  as  to  its 
identity.  He  advanced. 

"  'Lo,  Penrod,"  he  said  cautiously,  and  with  a  shade  of 
formality. 

Penrod  leaned  against  the  fence,  and,  lifting  one  leg, 
tested  the  knee- joint  by  swinging  his  foot  back  and  forth,  a 
process  evidently  provocative  of  a  little  pain.  Then  he 
rubbed  the  left  side  of  his  encrusted  face,  and,  opening  his 
mouth  to  its  whole  capacity  as  an  aperture,  moved  his 
lower  jaw  slightly  from  side  to  side,  thus  triumphantly 
settling  a  question  in  his  own  mind  as  to  whether  or  no  a 
suspected  dislocation  had  taken  place. 

128 


Having  satisfied  himself  on  these  points,  he  examined 
both  shins  delicately  by  the  sense  of  touch,  and  carefully 
tested  the  capacities  of  his  neck-muscles  to  move  his  head 
in  a  wonted  manner. 

Then  he  responded  somewhat  gruffly: 

"  'Lo !" 

"Where  you  been?"  Sam  said  eagerly,  his  formality  van- 
ishing. 

"Havin'  a  mud-fight." 

"I  guess  you  did !"  Sam  exclaimed,  in  a  low  voice.  "What 
you  goin'  to  tell  your " 

"Oh,  nothin'." 

"Your  sister  telephoned  to  our  house  to  see  if  I  knew 
where  you  were,"  said  Sam.  "She  told  me  if  I  saw  you 
before  you  got  home  to  tell  you  sumpthing;  but  not  to  say 
anything  about  it.  She  said  Miss  Spence  had  telephoned  to 
her,  but  she  said  for  me  to  tell  you  it  was  all  right  about  that 
letter,  and  she  wasn't  goin'  to  tell  your  mother  and  father 
on  you,  so  you  needn't  say  anything  about  it  to  'em." 

"All  right,"  said  Penrod  indifferently. 

"She  says  you're  goin'  to  be  in  enough  trouble  without 
that,"  Sam  went  on.  "You're  goin'  to  catch  fits  about  your 
Uncle  Slocum's  hat,  Penrod." 

"Well,  I  guess  I  know  it." 

"And  about  not  comin'  home  to  dinner,  too.  Your  mother 
telephoned  twice  to  Mamma  while  we  were  eatin'  to  see  if 
you'd  come  in  our  house.  And  when  they  see  you — my,  but 
you're  goin'  to  get  the  dickens,  Penrod!" 

Penrod  seemed  unimpressed,  though  he  was  well  aware 
that  Sam's  prophecy  was  no  unreasonable  one. 

"Well,  I  guess  I  know  it,"  he  repeated  casually.  And  he 
moved  slowly  toward  his  own  gate. 

His  friend  looked  after  him  curiously — then,  as  the  limp- 
ing figure  fumbled  clumsily  with  bruised  fingers  at  the  latch 
of  the  gate,  there  sounded  a  little  solicitude  in  Sam's  voice. 

"Say,  Penrod,  how — how  do  you  feel?" 

"What?" 

129 


"Do  you  feel  pretty  bad?" 

"No,"  said  Penrod,  and,  in  spite  of  what  awaited  him 
beyond  the  lighted  portals  just  ahead,  he  spoke  the  truth. 
His  nerves  were  rested,  and  his  soul  was  at  peace.  His 
Wednesday  madness  was  over. 

"No,"  said  Penrod;  "I  feel  bully!" 


130 


PENKODS   BUSY   DAY 

ALTHOUGH  the  pressure  had  thus  been  relieved  and 
Penrod  found  peace  with  himself,  nevertheless  there 
were  times  during  the  rest  of  that  week  when  he  felt 
a  strong  distaste  for  Margaret.  His  schoolmates  frequently 
reminded  him  of  such  phrases  in  her  letter  as  they  seemed 
least  able  to  forget,  and  for  hours  after  each  of  these  experi- 
ences he  was  unable  to  comport  himself  with  human  courtesy 
when  constrained  (as  at  dinner)  to  remain  for  any  length 
of  time  in  the  same  room  with  her.  But  by  Sunday  these 
moods  had  seemed  to  pass;  he  attended  church  in  her  close 
company,  and  had  no  thought  of  the  troubles  brought  upon 
him  by  her  correspondence  with  a  person  who  throughout 
remained  unknown  to  him. 

131 


Penrod  slumped  far  down  in  the  pew  with  his  knees 
against  the  back  of  that  in  front,  and  he  also  languished 
to  one  side,  so  that  the  people  sitting  behind  were  afforded 
a  view  of  him  consisting  of  a  little  hair  and  one  bored  ear. 
The  sermon — a  noble  one,  searching  and  eloquent — was  but 
a  persistent  sound  in  that  ear,  though,  now  and  then,  Pen- 
rod's  attention  would  be  caught  by  some  detached  portion 
of  a  sentence,  when  his  mind  would  dwell  dully  upon  the 
phrases  for  a  little  while — and  lapse  into  a  torpor.  At 
intervals  his  mother,  without  turning  her  head,  would 
whisper,  "Sit  up,  Penrod",  causing  him  to  sigh  profoundly 
and  move  his  shoulders  about  an  inch,  this  mere  gesture  of 
compliance  exhausting  all  the  energy  that  remained  to  him. 

The  black  backs  and  gray  heads  of  the  elderly  men  in 
the  congregation  oppressed  him;  they  made  him  lethargic 
with  a  sense  of  long  lives  of  repellent  dullness.  But  he 
should  have  been  grateful  to  the  lady  with  the  artificial 
cherries  upon  her  hat.  His  gaze  lingered  there,  wandered 
away,  and  hopelessly  returned  again  and  again,  to  be  a 
little  refreshed  by  the  glossy  scarlet  of  the  cluster  of  tiny 
globes.  He  was  not  so  fortunate  as  to  be  drowsy ;  that  would 
have  brought  him  some  relief — and  yet,  after  a  while,  his 
eyes  became  slightly  glazed;  he  saw  dimly,  and  what  he 
saw  was  distorted. 

The  church  had  been  built  in  the  early  'Seventies,  and  it 
contained  some  naive  stained  glass  of  that  period.  The  arch 
at  the  top  of  a  window  facing  Penrod  was  filled  with  a 
gigantic  Eye.  Of  oyster- white  and  raw  blues  and  reds,  in- 
flamed by  the  pouring  sun,  it  had  held  an  awful  place  in  the 
infantile  life  of  Penrod  Schofield,  for  in  his  tenderer  years 
he  accepted  it  without  question  as  the  literal  Eye  of  Deity. 
He  had  been  informed  that  the  church  was  the  divine  dwell- 
ing— and  there  was  the  Eye! 

Nowadays,  being  no  longer  a  little  child,  he  had  somehow 
come  to  know  better  without  being  told,  and,  though  the 
great  flaming  Eye  was  no  longer  the  terrifying  thing  it 
had  been  to  him  during  his  childhood,  it  nevertheless  re- 


tained  something  of  its  ominous  character.  It  made  him  feel 
spied  upon,  and  its  awful  glare  still  pursued  him,  some- 
times, as  he  was  falling  asleep  at  night.  When  he  faced  the 
window  his  feeling  was  one  of  dull  resentment. 

His  own  glazed  eyes,  becoming  slightly  crossed  with  an 
ennui  that  was  peculiarly  intense  this  morning,  rendered 
the  Eye  more  monstrous  than  it  was.  It  expanded  to  horrible 
size,  growing  mountainous;  it  turned  into  a  volcano  in  the 
tropics,  and  yet  it  stared  at  him,  indubitably  an  Eye  im- 
placably hostile  to  all  rights  of  privacy  forever.  Penrod 
blinked  and  clinched  his  eyelids  to  be  rid  of  this  dual  image, 
and  he  managed  to  shake  off  the  volcano.  Then,  lowering 
the  angle  of  his  glance,  he  saw  something  most  remarkable 
— and  curiously  out  of  place. 

An  inverted  white  soup-plate  was  lying  miraculously 
balanced  upon  the  back  of  a  pew  a  little  distance  in  front 
of  him,  and  upon  the  upturned  bottom  of  the  soup-plate 
was  a  brown  cocoanut.  Mildly  surprised,  Penrod  yawned, 
and,  in  the  effort  to  straighten  his  eyes,  came  to  life 
temporarily.  The  cocoanut  was  revealed  as  Georgie  Bassett's 
head,  and  the  soup-plate  as  Georgie's  white  collar.  Georgie 
was  sitting  up  straight,  as  he  always  did  in  church,  and 
Penrod  found  this  vertical  rectitude  unpleasant.  He  knew 
that  he  had  more  to  fear  from  the  Eye  than  Georgie  had, 
and  he  was  under  the  impression  (a  correct  one)  that 
Georgie  felt  on  intimate  terms  with  it  and  was  actually  fond 
of  it. 

Penrod  himself  would  have  maintained  that  he  was  fond 
of  it,  if  he  had  been  asked.  He  would  have  said  so  because 
he  feared  to  say  otherwise;  and  the  truth  is  that  he  never 
consciously  looked  at  the  Eye  disrespectfully.  He  would 
have  been  alarmed  if  he  thought  the  Eye  had  any  way  of 
finding  out  how  he  really  felt  about  it.  When  not  off  his 
guard,  he  always  looked  at  it  placatively. 

By  and  by,  he  sagged  so  far  to  the  left  that  he  had 
symptoms  of  a  "stitch  in  the  side",  and,  rousing  himself, 
sat  partially  straight  for  several  moments.  Then  he  rubbed 

133 


his  shoulders  slowly  from  side  to  side  against  the  back  of 
the  seat,  until  his  mother  whispered,  "Don't  do  that,  Pen- 
rod." 

Upon  this,  he  allowed  himself  to  slump  inwardly  till  the 
curve  in  the  back  of  his  neck  rested  against  the  curved 
top  of  the  back  of  the  seat.  It  was  a  congenial  fit,  and 
Penrod  again  began  to  move  slowly  from  side  to  side,  find- 
ing the  friction  soothing.  Even  so  slight  a  pleasure  was 
denied  him  by  a  husky,  "Stop  that!"  from  his  father. 

Penrod  sighed,  and  slid  farther  down.  He  scratched  his 
head,  his  left  knee,  his  right  biceps  and  his  left  ankle,  after 
which  he  scratched  his  right  knee,  his  right  ankle  and  his 
left  biceps.  Then  he  said,  "Oh,  hum!"  unconsciously,  but 
so  loudly  that  there  was  a  reproving  stir  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  Schofield  pew,  and  his  father  looked  at  him 
angrily. 

Finally,  his  nose  began  to  trouble  him.  It  itched,  and 
after  scratching  it,  he  rubbed  it  harshly.  Another  "Stop 
that!"  from  his  father  proved  of  no  avail,  being  greeted 
by  a  desperate-sounding  whisper,  "I  got  to !" 

And,  continuing  to  rub  his  nose  with  his  right  hand,  Pen- 
rod  began  to  search  his  pockets  with  his  left.  The  quest 
proving  fruitless,  he  rubbed  his  nose  with  his  left  hand 
and  searched  with  his  right.  Then  he  abandoned  his  nose 
and  searched  feverishly  with  both  hands,  going  through  all 
of  his  pockets  several  times. 

"What  do  you  want?"  whispered  his  mother. 

But  Margaret  had  divined  his  need,  and  she  passed  him 
her  own  handkerchief.  This  was  both  thoughtful  and 
thoughtless — the  latter  because  Margaret  was  in  the  habit 
of  thinking  that  she  became  faint  in  crowds,  especially  at 
the  theatre  or  in  church,  and  she  had  just  soaked  her  hand- 
kerchief with  spirits  of  ammonia  from  a  small  phial  she 
carried  in  her  muff. 

Penrod  hastily  applied  the  handkerchief  to  his  nose  and 
even  more  hastily  exploded.  He  sneezed  stupendously;  he 
choked,  sneezed  again,  wept,  passed  into  a  light  convulsion 


of  coughing  and  sneezing  together — a  mergence  of  sound 
that  attracted  much  attention — and,  after  a  few  recurrent 
spasms,  convalesced  into  a  condition  marked  by  silent  tears 
and  only  sporadic  instances  of  sneezing. 

By  this  time  his  family  were  unanimously  scarlet — his 
father  and  mother  with  mortification,  and  Margaret  with 
the  effort  to  control  the  almost  irresistible  mirth  that  the 
struggles  and  vociferations  of  Penrod  had  inspired  within 
her.  And  yet  her  heart  misgave  her,  for  his  bloodshot  and 
tearful  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  from  the  first  and  remained 
upon  her,  even  when  half -blinded  with  his  agony ;  and  their 
expression — as  terrible  as  that  of  the  windowed  Eye  con- 
fronting her — was  not  for  an  instant  to  be  misunderstood. 
Absolutely,  he  believed  that  she  had  handed  him  the 
ammonia-soaked  handkerchief  deliberately  and  with  malice, 
and  well  she  knew  that  no  power  on  earth  could  now  or  at 
any  time  henceforth  persuade  him  otherwise. 

"Of  course  I  didn't  mean  it,  Penrod,"  she  said,  at  the 
first  opportunity  upon  their  homeward  way.  "I  didn't  notice 

—that  is,  I  didn't  think "  Unfortunately  for  the  effect 

of  sincerity  she  hoped  to  produce,  her  voice  became 
tremulous  and  her  shoulders  moved  suspiciously. 

"Just  you  wait!  You'll  see!"  he  prophesied,  in  a  voice 
now  choking,  not  with  ammonia,  but  with  emotion.  "Poison 
a  person,  and  then  laugh  in  his  face!" 

He  spake  no  more  until  they  had  reached  their  own  house, 
though  she  made  some  further  futile  efforts  at  explanation 
and  apology. 

And  after  brooding  abysmally  throughout  the  meal  that 
followed,  he  disappeared  from  the  sight  of  his  family,  hav- 
ing answered  with  one  frightful  look  his  mother's  timid 
suggestion  that  it  was  almost  time  for  Sunday-school.  He 
retired  to  his  eyry — the  sawdust  box  in  the  empty  stable — 
and  there  gave  rein  to  his  embittered  imaginings,  incident- 
ally forming  many  plans  for  Margaret. 

Most  of  these  were  much  too  elaborate;  but  one  was  so 
alluring  that  he  dwelt  upon  it,  working  out  the  details  with 

135 


gloomy  pleasure,  even  after  he  had  perceived  its  defects. 
It  involved  some  postponement — in  fact,  until  Margaret 
should  have  become  the  mother  of  a  boy  about  Penrod's 
present  age.  This  boy  would  be  precisely  like  Georgie 
Bassett — Penrod  conceived  that  as  inevitable — and,  like 
Georgie,  he  would  be  his  mother's  idol.  Penrod  meant  to  take 
him  to  church  and  force  him  to  blow  his  nose  with  an 
ammonia-soaked  handkerchief  in  the  presence  of  the  Eye 
and  all  the  congregation. 

Then  Penrod  intended  to  say  to  this  boy,  after  church, 
"Well,  that's  exackly  what  your  mother  did  to  me,  and  if 
you  don't  like  it,  you  better  look  out!" 

And  the  real  Penrod  in  the  sawdust  box  clenched  his 
fists.  "Come  ahead,  then!"  he  muttered.  "You  talk  too 
much!"  Whereupon,  the  Penrod  of  his  dream  gave  Mar- 
garet's puny  son  a  contemptuous  thrashing  under  the  eyes 
of  his  mother,  who  besought  in  vain  for  mercy. 

"That'll  show  you  how  you  better  treat  me  after  this," 
Penrod  said  to  the  imagined  Margaret.  "Now  take  that  ole 
cry-baby  home  and  keep  him  there!" 

The  day  became  bright;  Penrod  climbed  out  of  the  box, 
and,  with  a  heart  at  peace,  went  to  look  for  Sam  Williams. 


136 


ON   ACCOUNT   OF   THE    WEATHER 

THERE  is  no  boredom   (not  even  an  invalid's)   com- 
parable to  that  of  a  boy  who  has  nothing  to  do. 
When  a  man  says  he  has  nothing  to  do,  he  speaks 
idly;  there  is  always  more  than  he  can  do.  Grown  women 
never  say  they  have  nothing  to  do,  and  when  girls  or  little 
girls  say  they  have  nothing  to  do,  they  are  merely  airing 
an  affectation.  But  when  a  boy  has  nothing  to  do,  he  has 
actually  nothing  at  all  to  do;  his  state  is  pathetic,  and 
when  he  complains  of  it  his  voice  is  haunting. 

Mrs.  Schofield  was  troubled  by  this  uncomfortable  quality 
in  the  voice  of  her  son,  who  came  to  her  thrice,  in  his  search 
for  entertainment  or  even  employment,  one  Saturday  after- 
noon during  the  February  thaw.  Few  facts  are  better  estab- 

137 


lished  than  that  the  February  thaw  is  the  poorest  time  of 
year  for  everybody.  But  for  a  boy  it  is  worse  than  poorest ; 
it  is  bankrupt.  The  remnant  streaks  of  old  soot-speckled 
snow  left  against  the  north  walls  of  houses  have  no  power 
to  inspire;  rather,  they  are  dreary  reminders  of  sports  long 
since  carried  to  satiety.  One  cares  little  even  to  eat  such 
snow,  and  the  eating  of  icicles,  also,  has  come  to  be  a  flaccid 
and  stale  diversion.  There  is  no  ice  to  bear  a  skate;  there 
is  only  a  vast  sufficiency  of  cold  mud,  practically  useless. 
Sunshine  flickers  shiftily,  coming  and  going  without  any 
honest  purpose;  snow-squalls  blow  for  five  minutes,  the 
flakes  disappearing  as  they  touch  the  earth;  half  an  hour 
later  rain  sputters,  turns  to  snow  and  then  turns  back  to 
rain — and  the  sun  disingenuously  beams  out  again,  only 
to  be  shut  off  like  a  rogue's  lantern.  And  all  the  wretched 
while,  if  a  boy  sets  foot  out  of  doors,  he  must  be  harassed 
about  his  overcoat  and  rubbers ;  he  is  warned  against  track- 
ing up  the  plastic  lawn  and  sharply  advised  to  stay  inside 
the  house.  Saturday  might  as  well  be  Sunday. 

Thus  the  season.  Penrod  had  sought  all  possible  means 
to  pass  the  time.  A  full  half-hour  of  vehement  yodelling 
in  the  Williams'  yard  had  failed  to  bring  forth  comrade 
Sam;  and  at  last  a  coloured  woman  had  opened  a  window 
to  inform  Penrod  that  her  intellect  was  being  unseated  by 
his  vocalizations,  which  surpassed  in  unpleasantness,  she 
claimed,  every  sound  in  her  previous  experience — and,  for 
the  sake  of  definiteness,  she  stated  her  age  to  be  fifty-three 
years  and  four  months.  She  added  that  all  members  of 
the  Williams  family  had  gone  out  of  town  to  attend  the 
funeral  of  a  relative,  but  she  wished  that  they  might  have 
remained  to  attend  Penrod's,  which  she  confidently  predicted 
as  imminent  if  the  neighbourhood  followed  its  natural  im- 
pulse. 

Penrod  listened  for  a  time,  but  departed  before  the  con- 
clusion of  the  oration.  He  sought  other  comrades,  with  no 
success ;  he  even  went  to  the  length  of  yodelling  in  the  yard 
of  that  best  of  boys,  Georgie  Bassett.  Here  was  failure 

138 


again,  for  Georgie  signalled  to  him,  through  a  closed  win- 
dow, that  a  closeting  with  dramatic  literature  was  prefer- 
able to  the  society  of  a  playmate;  and  the  book  that 
Georgie  exhibited  was  openly  labelled,  "300  Choice  Dec- 
lamations." Georgie  also  managed  to  convey  another  reason 
for  his  refusal  of  Penrod's  companionship,  the  visitor  being 
conversant  with  lip-reading  through  his  studies  at  the 
"movies". 

"Too  muddy!" 

Penrod  went  home. 

"Well,"  Mrs.  Schofield  said,  having  almost  exhausted  a 
mother's  powers  of  suggestion,  "well,  why  don't  you  give 
Duke  a  bath?"  She  was  that  far  depleted  when  Penrod 
came  to  her  the  third  time. 

Mothers'  suggestions  are  wonderful  for  little  children  but 
sometimes  lack  lustre  when  a  boy  approaches  twelve — an 
age  to  which  the  ideas  of  a  Swede  farm-hand  would  usually 
prove  more  congenial.  However,  the  dim  and  melancholy  eye 
of  Penrod  showed  a  pale  gleam,  and  he  departed.  He  gave 
Duke  a  bath. 

The  entertainment  proved  damp  and  discouraging  for 
both  parties.  Duke  began  to  tremble  even  before  he  was 
lifted  into  the  water,  and  after  his  first  immersion  he  was 
revealed  to  be  a  dog  weighing  about  one-fourth  of  what  an 
observer  of  Duke,  when  Duke  was  dry,  must  have  guessed 
his  weight  to  be.  His  wetness  and  the  disclosure  of  his 
extreme  fleshly  insignificance  appeared  to  mortify  him  pro- 
foundly. He  wept.  But,  presently,  under  Penrod's  thorough 
ministrations — for  the  young  master  was  inclined  to  make 
this  bath  last  as  long  as  possible — Duke  plucked  up  a  heart 
and  began  a  series  of  passionate  attempts  to  close  the  inter- 
view. As  this  was  his  first  bath  since  September,  the  effects 
were  lavish  and  impressionistic,  both  upon  Penrod  and  upon 
the  bathroom.  However,  the  imperious  boy's  loud  remon- 
strances contributed  to  bring  about  the  result  desired  by 
Duke. 

Mrs.  Schofield  came  running,  and  eloquently  put  an  end 

139 


to  Duke's  winter  bath.  When  she  had  suggested  this  cleans- 
ing as  a  pleasant  means  of  passing  the  time,  she  assumed 
that  it  would  take  place  in  a  washtub  in  the  cellar;  and 
Penrod's  location  of  the  performance  in  her  own  bathroom 
was  far  from  her  intention. 

Penrod  found  her  language  oppressive,  and,  having  been 
denied  the  right  to  rub  Duke  dry  with  a  bath-towel — or 
even  with  the  cover  of  a  table  in  the  next  room — the  dismal 
boy,  accompanied  by  his  dismal  dog,  set  forth,  by  way  of 
the  kitchen  door,  into  the  dismal  weather.  With  no  purpose 
in  mind,  they  mechanically  went  out  to  the  alley,  where 
Penrod  leaned  morosely  against  the  fence,  and  Duke  stood 
shivering  close  by,  his  figure  still  emaciated  and  his  tail 
absolutely  withdrawn  from  view. 

There  was  a  cold,  wet  wind,  however;  and  before  long 
Duke  found  his  condition  unendurable.  He  was  past  middle 
age  and  cared  little  for  exercise ;  but  he  saw  that  something 
must  be  done.  Therefore,  he  made  a  vigorous  attempt  to 
dry  himself  in  a  dog's  way.  Throwing  himself,  shoulders 
first,  upon  the  alley  mud,  he  slid  upon  it,  back  downward; 
he  rolled  and  rolled  and  rolled.  He  began  to  feel  lively  and 
rolled  the  more;  in  every  way  he  convinced  Penrod  that 
dogs  have  no  regard  for  appearances.  Also,  having  discov- 
ered an  ex-fish  near  the  Herman  and  Verman  cottage,  Duke 
confirmed  an  impression  of  Penrod's  that  dogs  have  a 
peculiar  fancy  in  the  matter  of  odours  that  they  like  to 
wear. 

Growing  livelier  and  livelier,  Duke  now  wished  to  play 
with  his  master.  Penrod  was  anything  but  fastidious; 
nevertheless,  under  the  circumstances,  he  withdrew  to  the 
kitchen,  leaving  Duke  to  play  by  himself,  outside. 

Delia,  the  cook,  was  comfortably  making  rolls  and  enter- 
taining a  caller  with  a  cup  of  tea.  Penrod  lingered  a  few 
moments,  but  found  even  his  attention  to  the  conversation 
ill  received,  while  his  attempts  to  take  part  in  it  met  out- 
right rebuff.  His  feelings  were  hurt;  he  passed  broodingly 
to  the  front  part  of  the  house,  and  flung  himself  wearily 

140 


into  an  armchair  in  the  library.  With  glazed  eyes  he  stared 
at  shelves  of  books  that  meant  to  him  just  what  the  wall- 
paper meant,  and  he  sighed  from  the  abyss.  His  legs  tossed 
and  his  arms  flopped;  he  got  up,  scratched  himself 
exhaustively,  and  shuffled  to  a  window.  Ten  desolate  minutes 
he  stood  there,  gazing  out  sluggishly  upon  a  soggy  world. 
During  this  time  two  wet  delivery-wagons  and  four  elderly 
women  under  umbrellas  were  all  that  crossed  his  field  of 
vision,,  Somewhere  in  the  world,  he  thought,  there  was  prob- 
ably a  boy  who  lived  across  the  street  from  a  jail  or  a  fire- 
engine  house,  and  had  windows  worth  looking  out  of.  Penrod 
rubbed  his  nose  up  and  down  the  pane  slowly,  continuously, 
and  without  the  slightest  pleasure;  and  he  again  scratched 
himself  wherever  it  was  possible  to  do  so,  though  he  did  not 
even  itch.  There  was  nothing  in  his  life. 

Such  boredom  as  he  was  suffering  can  become  agony,  and 
an  imaginative  creature  may  do  wild  things  to  escape  it; 
many  a  grown  person  has  taken  to  drink  on  account  of  less 
pressure  than  was  upon  Penrod  during  that  intolerable 
Saturday. 

A  faint  sound  in  his  ear  informed  him  that  Delia,  in  the 
kitchen,  had  uttered  a  loud  exclamation,  and  he  decided  to 
go  back  there.  However,  since  his  former  visit  had  resulted 
in  a  rebuff  that  still  rankled,  he  paused  outside  the  kitchen 
door,  which  was  slightly  ajar,  and  listened.  He  did  this  idly, 
and  with  no  hope  of  hearing  anything  interesting  or  helpful. 

"Snakes !"  Delia  exclaimed.  "Didja  say  the  poor  man  was 
seein'  snakes,  Mrs.  Cullen?" 

"No,  Delia,"  Mrs.  Cullen  returned  dolorously;  "jist  one. 
Flora  says  he  niver  see  more  th'n  one — jist  one  big,  long, 
ugly-faced  horr'ble  black  one ;  the  same  one  comin'  back  an' 
makin'  a  fizzin'  n'ise  at  um  iv'ry  time  he  had  the  fit  on  urn. 
'Twas  alw'ys  the  same  snake;  an'  he'd  holler  at  Flora. 
'Here  it  comes  ag'in,  oh,  me  soul!'  he'd  holler.  'The  big, 
black,  ugly- faced  thing;  it's  as  long  as  the  front  fence!' 
he'd  holler,  'an'  it's  makin'  a  fizzin'  n'ise  at  me,  an'  breathin* 
in  me  face !'  he'd  holler.  'Fer  th'  love  o'  hivin',  Flora,'  he'd 

141 


holler,  'it's  got  a  little  black  man  wit'  a  gassly  white  fore- 
head a-pokin'  of  it  along  wit'  a  broom-handle,  an'  a-sickin5 
it  on  me,  the  same  as  a  boy  sicks  a  dog  on  a  poor  cat.  Fer 
the  love  o'  hivin',  Flora,'  he'd  holler,  'cantcha  fright  it 
away  from  me  before  I  go  out  o'  me  head?'  " 

"Poor  Tom!"  said  Delia  with  deep  compassion.  "An'  the 
poor  man  out  of  his  head  all  the  time,  an'  not  knowin'  it! 
'Twas  awful  fer  Flora  to  sit  there  an'  hear  such  things  in 
the  night  like  that!" 

"You  may  believe  yerself  whin  ye  say  it!"  Mrs.  Cullen 
agreed.  "Right  the  very  night  the  poor  soul  died,  he  was 
hollerin'  how  the  big  black  snake  and  the  little  black  man 
wit'  the  gassly  white  forehead  a-pokin'  it  wit'  a  broomstick 
had  come  fer  um.  'Fright  'em  away.  Flora!'  he  was 
croakin',  in  a  v'ice  that  hoarse  an'  husky  'twas  hard  to 
make  out  what  he  says.  'Fright  'em  away,  Flora!'  he  says. 
'  'Tis  the  big,  black,  ugly-faced  snake,  as  black  as  a  black 
stockin'  an'  thicker  round  than  me  leg  at  the  thigh  before 
I  was  wasted  away!'  he  says,  poor  man.  'It's  makin'  the 
fizzin'  n'ise  awful  to-night,'  he  says.  'An'  the  little  black 
man  wit'  the  gassly  white  forehead  is  a-laughin','  he  says. 
'He's  a-laughin'  an'  a-pokin'  the  big,  black,  fizzin',  ugly- 
faced  snake  wit'  his  broomstick ' ' 

Delia  was  unable  to  endure  the  description. 

"Don't  tell  me  no  more,  Mrs.  Cullen!"  she  protested. 
"Poor  Tom !  I  thought  Flora  was  wrong  last  week  whin  she 
hid  the  whisky.  'Twas  takin'  it  away  from  him  that  killed 
him — an'  him  already  so  sick!" 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Cullen,  "he  hardly  had  the  strengt'  to 
drink  much,  she  tells  me,  after  he  see  the  big  snake  an'  the 
little  black  divil  the  first  time.  Poor  woman,  she  says  he 
talked  so  plain  she  sees  'em  both  herself,  iv'ry  time  she 
looks  at  the  poor  body  where  it's  laid  out.  She  says " 

"Don't  tell  me!"  cried  the  impressionable  Delia.  "Don't 
tell  me,  Mrs.  Cullen!  I  can  most  see  'em  meself,  right  here 
in  me  own  kitchen !  Poor  Tom !  To  think  whin  I  bought  me 


new  hat,  only  last  week,  the  first  time  I'd  be  wearin'  it'd  be  to 
his  funeral.  To-morrow  afternoon,  it  is?" 

"At  two  o'clock,"  said  Mrs.  Cullen.  "Ye'll  be  comin'  to 
th'  house  to-night,  o'  course,  Delia?" 

"I  will,"  said  Delia.  "After  what  I've  been  hearin'  from 
ye,  I'm  'most  afraid  to  come,  but  I'll  do  it.  Poor  Tom!  I 
remember  the  day  him  an5  Flora  was  married " 

But  the  eavesdropper  heard  no  more;  he  was  on  his  way 
up  the  back  stairs.  Life  and  light — and  purpose — had  come 
to  his  face  once  more. 

Margaret  was  out  for  the  afternoon.  Unostentatiously,  he 
went  to  her  room,  and  for  the  next  few  minutes  occupied 
himself  busily  therein.  He  was  so  quiet  that  his  mother, 
sewing  in  her  own  room,  would  not  have  heard  him  except 
for  the  obstinacy  of  one  of  the  drawers  in  Margaret's 
bureau.  Mrs.  Schofield  went  to  the  door  of  her  daughter's 
room. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Penrod?" 

"NothinV 

"You're  not  disturbing  any  of  Margaret's  things,  are 
you?" 

"No,  ma'am,"  said  the  meek  lad. 

"What  did  you  jerk  that  drawer  open  for?" 

"Ma'am?" 

"You  heard  me,  Penrod." 

"Yes,  ma'am.  I  was  just  lookin'  for  sumpthing." 

"For  what?"  Mrs.  Schofield  asked.  "You  know  that  noth- 
ing of  yours  would  be  in  Margaret's  room,  Penrod,  don't 
you?"  ' 

"Ma'am?" 

"What  was  it  you  wanted?"  she  asked,  rather  impatiently. 

"I  was  just  lookin'  for  some  pins." 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  and  handed  him  two  from  the 
shoulder  of  her  blouse. 

"I  ought  to  have  more,"  he  said.  "I  want  about  forty." 

"What  for?" 

"I  just  want  to   make  sumpthing,   Mamma,"   he  said 

143 


plaintively.  "My  goodness !  Can't  I  even  want  to  have  a  few 
pins  without  everybody  makin'  such  a  fuss  about  it  you'd 
think  I  was  doin'  a  srime !" 

"Doing  a  what,  Penrod?" 

"A  srime!"  he  repeated,  with  emphasis ;  and  a  moment's 
reflection  enlightened  his  mother. 

"Oh,  a  crime!"  she  exclaimed.  "You  must  quit  reading 
the  murder  trials  in  the  newspapers,  Penrod.  And  when  you 
read  words  you  don't  know  how  to  pronounce  you  ought  to 
ask  either  your  papa  or  me." 

"Well,  I  am  askin'  you  about  sumpthing  now,"  Penrod 
said.  "Can't  I  even  have  a  few  pins  without  stoppin'  to  talk 
about  everything  in  the  newspapers,  Mamma?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  laughing  at  his  seriousness ;  and  she  took 
him  to  her  room,  and  bestowed  upon  him  five  or  six  rows 
torn  from  a  paper  of  pins.  "That  ought  to  be  plenty,"  she 
said,  "for  whatever  you  want  to  make." 

And  she  smiled  after  his  retreating  figure,  not  noting 
that  he  looked  softly  bulky  around  the  body,  and  held  his 
elbows  unnaturally  tight  to  his  sides.  She  was  assured  of 
the  innocence  of  anything  to  be  made  with  pins,  and  for- 
bore to  press  investigation.  For  Penrod  to  be  playing  with 
pins  seemed  almost  girlish.  Unhappy  woman,  it  pleased  her 
to  have  her  son  seem  girlish! 

Penrod  went  out  to  the  stable,  tossed  his  pins  into  the 
wheelbarrow,  then  took  from  his  pocket  and  unfolded  six 
pairs  of  long  black  stockings,  indubitably  the  property  of 
his  sister.  (Evidently  Mrs.  Schofield  had  been  a  little  late 
in  making  her  appearance  at  the  door  of  Margaret's  room.) 

Penrod  worked  systematically ;  he  hung  the  twelve  stock- 
ings over  the  sides  of  the  wheelbarrow,  and  placed  the 
wheelbarrow  beside  a  large  packing-box  that  was  half  full  of 
excelsior.  One  after  another,  he  stuffed  the  stockings  with 
excelsior,  till  they  looked  like  twelve  long  black  sausages. 
Then  he  pinned  the  top  of  one  stocking  securely  over  the 
stuffed  foot  of  another,  pinning  the  top  of  a  third  to  the 
foot  of  the  second,  the  top  of  a  fourth  to  the  foot  of  the 

144 


third — and  continued  operations  in  this  fashion  until  the 
twelve  stockings  were  the  semblance  of  one  long  and  sinuous 
black  body,  sufficiently  suggestive  to  any  normal  eye. 

He  tied  a  string  to  one  end  of  this  unpleasant-looking 
thing,  led  it  around  the  stable,  and,  by  vigorous  manipula- 
tions, succeeded  in  making  it  wriggle  realistically ;  but  he 
was  not  satisfied,  and,  dropping  the  string  listlessly,  sat 
down  in  the  wheelbarrow  to  ponder.  Penrod  sometimes 
proved  that  there  were  within  him  the  makings  of  an  artist ; 
he  had  become  fascinated  by  an  idea,  and  could  not  be 
content  until  that  idea  was  beautifully  realized.  He  had 
meant  to  create  a  big,  long,  ugly-faced  horrible  black  snake 
with  which  to  interest  Delia  and  her  friend,  Mrs.  Cullen; 
but  he  felt  that  results,  so  far,  were  too  crude  for  exploita- 
tion. Merely  to  lead  the  pinned  stockings  by  a  string  was 
little  to  fulfill  his  ambitious  vision. 

Finally,  he  rose  from  the  wheelbarrow. 

"If  I  only  had  a  cat !"  he  said  dreamily. 


145 


CREATIVE  ART 

HE  WENT  forth,  seeking. 
The  Schofield  household  was  catless  this  winter; 
but  there  was  a  nice  white  cat  at  the  Williams'. 
Penrod  strolled  thoughtfully  over  to  the  Williams's  yard. 

He  was  entirely  successful,  not  even  having  been  seen  by 
the  sensitive  coloured  woman,  aged  fifty-three  years  and 
four  months. 

But  still  Penrod  was  thoughtful.  The  artist  within  him 
was  unsatisfied  with  his  materials:  and  upon  his  return  to 
the  stable  he  placed  the  cat  beneath  an  overturned  box,  and 
once  more  sat  down  in  the  inspiring  wheelbarrow,  ponder- 
ing. His  expression,  concentrated  and  yet  a  little  anxious, 

146 


was  like  that  of  a  painter  at  work  upon  a  portrait  that  may 
or  may  not  turn  out  to  be  a  masterpiece.  The  cat  did  not 
disturb  him  by  her  purring,  though  she  was,  indeed,  already 
purring.  She  was  one  of  those  cozy,  youngish  cats — plump, 
even  a  little  full-bodied,  perhaps,  and  rather  conscious  of 
the  figure — that  are  entirely  conventional  and  domestic  by 
nature,  and  will  set  up  a  ladylike  housekeeping  anywhere 
without  making  a  fuss  about  it.  If  there  be  a  fault  in  these 
cats,  overcomplacency  might  be  the  name  for  it;  they  are  a 
shade  too  sure  of  themselves,  and  their  assumption  that  the 
world  means  to  treat  them  respectfully  has  just  a  little 
taint  of  the  grande  dame.  Consequently,  they  are  liable  to 
great  outbreaks  of  nervous  energy  from  within,  engendered 
by  the  extreme  surprises  that  life  sometimes  holds  in  store 
for  them.  They  lack  the  pessimistic  imagination. 

Mrs.  Williams's  cat  was  content  upon  a  strange  floor  and 
in  the  confining  enclosure  of  a  strange  box.  She  purred 
lor  a  time,  then  trustfully  fell  asleep.  'Twas  well  she 
slumbered;  she  would  need  all  her  powers  presently. 

She  slumbered,  and  dreamed  not  that  she  would  wake 
to  mingle  with  events  that  were  to  alter  her  serene  disposi- 
tion radically  and  cause  her  to  become  hasty-tempered  and 
abnormally  suspicious  for  the  rest  of  her  life. 

Meanwhile,  Penrod  appeared  to  reach  a  doubtful  solution 
of  his  problem.  His  expression  was  still  somewhat  clouded 
as  he  brought  from  the  storeroom  of  the  stable  a  small  frag- 
ment of  a  broken  mirror,  two  paint  brushes  and  two  old 
cans,  one  containing  black  paint  and  the  other  white.  He 
regarded  himself  earnestly  in  the  mirror;  then,  with  some 
reluctance,  he  dipped  a  brush  into  one  of  the  cans,  and 
slowly  painted  his  nose  a  midnight  black.  He  was  on  the 
point  of  spreading  this  decoration  to  cover  the  lower  part 
of  his  face,  when  he  paused,  brush  halfway  between  can 
and  chin. 

What  arrested  him  was  a  sound  from  the  alley — a  sound 
of  drumming  upon  tin.  The  eyes  of  Penrod  became  signifi- 
cant of  rushing  thoughts;  his  expression  cleared  and 

147 


brightened.  He  ran  to  the  alley  doors  and  flung  them  open. 

"Oh,  Verman!"  he  shouted. 

Marching  up  and  down  before  the  cottage  across  the 
alley,  Verman  plainly  considered  himself  to  be  an  army. 
Hanging  from  his  shoulders  by  a  string  was  an  old  tin 
wash-basin,  whereon  he  beat  cheerily  with  two  dry  bones, 
once  the  chief  supports  of  a  chicken.  Thus  he  assuaged  his 
ennui. 

"Verman,  come  on  in  here,"  Penrod  called.  "I  got  sump- 
thing  for  you  to  do  you'll  like  awful  well." 

Verman  halted,  ceased  to  drum,  and  stared.  His  gaze  was 
not  fixed  particularly  upon  Penrod's  nose,  however,  and 
neither  now  nor  later  did  he  make  any  remark  or  gesture 
referring  to  this  casual  eccentricity.  He  expected  things  like 
that  upon  Penrod  or  Sam  Williams.  And  as  for  Penrod 
himself,  he  had  already  forgotten  that  his  nose  was  painted. 

"Come  on,  Verman!" 

Verman  continued  to  stare,  not  moving.  He  had  received 
such  invitations  before,  and  they  had  not  always  resulted 
to  his  advantage.  Within  that  stable  things  had  happened 
to  him  the  like  of  which  he  was  anxious  to  avoid  in  the 
future. 

"Oh,  come  ahead,  Verman !"  Penrod  urged,  and,  divining 
logic  in  the  reluctance  confronting  him,  he  added,  "This 
ain't  goin'  to  be  anything  like  last  time,  Verman.  I  got 
sumpthing  just  splendud  for  you  to  do!" 

Verman's  expression  hardened;  he  shook  his  head  de- 
cisively. 

"Mo,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  come  on,  Verman?"  Penrod  pleaded.  "It  isn't  any- 
thing goin'  to  hurt  you,  is  it  ?  I  tell  you  it's  sumpthing  you'd 
give  a  good  deal  to  get  to  do,  if  you  knew  what  it  is." 

"Mo !"  said  Verman  firmly.  "I  mome  maw  woo !" 

Penrod  offered  arguments. 

"Look,  Verman!"  he  said.  "Listen  here  a  minute,  can't 
you?  How  d'you  know  you  don't  want  to  until  you  know 
what  it  is?  A  person  can't  know  they  don't  want  to  do  a 

148 


thing  even  before  the  other  person  tells  'em  what  they're 
goin'  to  get  'em  to  do,  can  they?  For  all  you  know,  this 
thing  I'm  goin'  to  get  you  to  do  might  be  sumpthing  you 
wouldn't  miss  doin'  for  anything  there  is !  For  all  you  know, 
Verman,  it  might  be  sumpthing  like  this:  well,  f'rinstance, 
s'pose  I  was  standin'  here,  and  you  were  over  there,  sort  of 
like  the  way  you  are  now,  and  I  says,  'Hello,  Verman!' 
and  then  I'd  go  on  and  tell  you  there  was  sumpthing  I  was 
goin'  to  get  you  to  do;  and  you'd  say  you  wouldn't  do  it, 
even  before  you  heard  what  it  was,  why  where'd  be  any  sense 
to  that?  For  all  you  know,  I  might  of  been  goin'  to  get 
you  to  eat  a  five-cent  bag  o'  peanuts." 

Verman  had  listened  obdurately  until  he  heard  the  last 
few  words;  but  as  they  fell  upon  his  ear,  he  relaxed,  and 
advanced  to  the  stable  doors,  smiling  and  extending  his  open 
right  hand. 

"Aw  wi,"  he  said.  "Gi'm  here." 

"Well,"  Penrod  returned,  a  trifle  embarrassed,  "I  didn't 
say  it  was  peanuts,  did  I?  Honest,  Verman,  it's  sumpthing 
you'll  like  better'n  a  few  old  peanuts  that  most  of  'em'd 
prob'ly  have  worms  in  'em,  anyway.  All  I  want  you  to  do 
is " 

But  Verman  was  not  favourably  impressed ;  his  face  hard- 
ened again. 

"Mo !"  he  said,  and  prepared  to  depart. 

"Look  here,  Verman,"  Penrod  urged.  "It  isn't  goin'  to 
hurt  you  just  to  come  in  here  and  see  what  I  got  for  you, 
is  it?  You  can  do  that  much,  can't  you?" 

Surely  such  an  appeal  must  have  appeared  reasonable, 
even  to  Verman,  especially  since  its  effect  was  aided  by  the 
promising  words,  "See  what  I  got  for  you."  Certainly  Ver- 
man yielded  to  it,  though  perhaps  a  little  suspiciously.  He 
advanced  a  few  cautious  steps  into  the  stable. 

"Look!"  Penrod  cried,  and  he  ran  to  the  stuffed  and 
linked  stockings,  seized  the  leading-string,  and  vigorously 
illustrated  his  further  remarks.  "How's  that  for  a  big,  long, 
ugly-faced  horr'ble  black  ole  snake,  Verman?  Look  at  her 

149 


follow  me  all  round  anywhere  I  feel  like  goin'!  Look  at 
her  wiggle,  will  you,  though?  Look  how  I  make  her  do 
anything  I  tell  her  to.  Lay  down,  you  ole  snake,  you!  See 
her  lay  down  when  I  teU  her  to,  Verman?  Wiggle,  you  ole 
snake,  you!  See  her  wiggle,  Verman?" 

"Hi!"  Undoubtedly  Verman  felt  some  pleasure. 

"Now,  listen,  Verman!"  Penrod  continued,  hastening  to 
make  the  most  of  the  opportunity.  "Listen !  I  fixed  up  this 
good  ole  snake  just  for  you.  I'm  goin'  to  give  her  to  you." 

"Mir 

On  account  of  a  previous  experience  not  unconnected 
with  cats,  and  likely  to  prejudice  Verman,  Penrod  decided 
to  postpone  mentioning  Mrs.  Williams's  pet  until  he  should 
have  secured  Verman's  cooperation  in  the  enterprise  irre- 
trievably. 

"All  you  got  to  do,"  he  went  on,  "is  to  chase  this  good 
ole  snake  around,  and  sort  o'  laugh  and  keep  pokin'  it  with 
the  handle  o'  that  rake  yonder.  I'm  goin'  to  saw  it  off  just 
so's  you  can  poke  your  good  ole  snake  with  it,  Verman." 

"Aw  wi,"  said  Verman,  and,  extending  his  open  hand 
again,  he  uttered  a  hopeful  request.  "Peamup  ?" 

His  host  perceived  that  Verman  had  misunderstood  him, 
"Peanuts !"  he  exclaimed.  "My  goodness !  I  didn't  say  I  had 
any  peanuts,  did  I?  I  only  said  s'pose  f'rinstance  I  did 
have  some.  My  goodness !  You  don't  expeck  me  to  go  round 
here  all  day  workin'  like  a  dog  to  make  a  good  ole  snake  for 
you  and  then  give  you  a  bag  o'  peanuts  to  hire  you  to  play 
with  it,  do  you,  Verman?  My  goodness!" 

Verman's  hand  fell,  with  a  little  disappointment. 

"Aw  wi,"  he  said,  consenting  to  accept  the  snake  with- 
out the  bonus. 

"That's  the  boy !  Now  we're  all  right,  Verman ;  and  pretty 
soon  I'm  goin'  to  saw  that  rake-handle  off  for  you,  too; 
so's  you  can  kind  o'  guide  your  good  ole  snake  around  with 
it;  but  first — well,  first  there's  just  one  more  thing's  got 
to  be  done.  I'll  show  you — it  won't  take  but  a  minute." 
Then,  while  Verman  watched  him  wonderingly,  he  went  to 

150 


the  can  of  white  paint  and  dipped  a  brush  therein.  "It 
won't  get  on  your  clo'es  much,  or  anything,  Verman,"  he 
explained.  "I  only  just  got  to " 

But  as  he  approached,  dripping  brush  in  hand,  the  won- 
dering look  was  all  gone  from  Verman;  determination  took 
its  place. 

"Mo !"  he  said,  turned  his  back,  and  started  for  outdoors. 

"Look  here,  Verman,"  Penrod  cried.  "I  haven't  done  any- 
thing to  you  yet,  have  I?  It  isn't  goin'  to  hurt  you,  is  it? 
You  act  like  a  little  teeny  bit  o'  paint  was  goin'  to  kill 
you!  What's  the  matter  of  you?  I  only  just  got  to  paint 
the  top  part  of  your  face;  I'm  not  goin'  to  touch  the  other 
part  of  it — nor  your  hands  or  anything.  All  /  want " 

"Mo/"  said  Verman  from  the  doorway. 

"Oh,  my  goodness!"  moaned  Penrod;  and  in  desperation 
he  drew  forth  from  his  pocket  his  entire  fortune.  "All  right, 
Verman,"  he  said  resignedly.  "If  you  won't  do  it  any  other 
way,  here's  a  nickel,  and  you  can  go  and  buy  you  some 
peanuts  when  we  get  through.  But  if  I  give  you  this  money, 
you  got  to  promise  to  wait  till  we  are  through,  and  you 
got  to  promise  to  do  anything  I  tell  you  to.  You  goin'  to 
promise?" 

The  eyes  of  Verman  glistened;  he  returned,  gave  bond, 
and,  grasping  the  coin,  burst  into  the  rich  laughter  of  a 
gourmand. 

Penrod  immediately  painted  him  dead  white  above  the 
eyes,  all  round  his  head  and  including  his  hair.  It  took  all 
the  paint  in  the  can. 

Then  the  artist  mentioned  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Williams's 
cat,  explained  in  full  his  ideas  concerning  the  docile  animal, 
and  the  long  black  snake,  and  Delia  and  her  friend,  Mrs. 
Cullen,  while  Verman  listened  with  anxiety,  but  remained 
true  to  his  oath. 

They  removed  the  stocking  at  the  end  of  the  long  black 
snake,  and  cut  four  holes  in  the  foot  and  ankle  of  it.  They 
removed  the  excelsior,  placed  Mrs.  Williams's  cat  in  the 

151 


stocking,  shook  her  down  into  the  lower  section  of  it;  drew 
her  feet  through  the  four  holes  there,  leaving  her  head  in 
the  toe  of  the  stocking;  then  packed  the  excelsior  down  on 
top  of  her,  and  once  more  attached  the  stocking  to  the  rest 
of  the  long,  black  snake. 

How  shameful  is  the  ease  of  the  historian!  He  sits  in  his 

dressing-gown  to  write :  "The  enemy  attacked  in  force " 

The  tranquil  pen,  moving  in  a  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke, 
leaves  upon  the  page  its  little  hieroglyphics,  serenely  sum- 
ming up  the  monstrous  deeds  and  sufferings  of  men  of 
action.  How  cold,  how  niggardly,  to  state  merely  that  Pen- 
rod  and  the  painted  Verman  succeeded  in  giving  the  long, 
black  snake  a  motive  power,  or  tractor,  apparently  its  own 
but  consisting  of  Mrs.  Williams's  cat! 

She  was  drowsy  when  they  lifted  her  from  the  box;  she 
was  still  drowsy  when  they  introduced  part  of  her  into  the 
orifice  of  the  stocking ;  but  she  woke  to  full,  vigorous  young 
life  when  she  perceived  that  their  purpose  was  for  her  to 
descend  into  the  black  depths  of  that  stocking  head  first. 

Verman  held  the  mouth  of  the  stocking  stretched,  and 
Penrod  manipulated  the  cat;  but  she  left  her  hearty  mark 
on  both  of  them  before,  in  a  moment  of  unfortunate  inspira- 
tion, she  humped  her  back  while  she  was  upside  down,  and 
Penrod  took  advantage  of  the  concavity  to  increase  it  even 
more  than  she  desired.  The  next  instant  she  was  assisted 
downward  into  the  gloomy  interior,  with  excelsior  already 
beginning  to  block  the  means  of  egress. 

Gymnastic  moments  followed ;  there  were  times  when  both 
boys  hurled  themselves  full-length  upon  the  floor,  seizing 
the  animated  stocking  with  far-extended  hands;  and  even 
when  the  snake  was  a  complete  thing,  with  legs  growing 
from  its  unquestionably  ugly  face,  either  Penrod  or  Verman 
must  keep  a  grasp  upon  it,  for  it  would  not  be  soothed,  and 
refused,  over  and  over,  to  calm  itself,  even  when  addressed 
as,  "Poor  pussy!"  and  "Nice  'ittle  kitty!" 

Finally,  they  thought  they  had  their  good  ole  snake  "about 
quieted  down",  as  Penrod  said,  because  the  animated  head 

152 


had  remained  in  one  place  for  an  unusual  length  of  time, 
though  the  legs  produced  a  rather  sinister  effect  of  crouch- 
ing, and  a  noise  like  a  distant  planing-mill  came  from  the 
interior — and  then  Duke  appeared  in  the  doorway. 
He  was  still  feeling  lively. 


153 


THE   DEPARTING   GUEST 

BY  THE  time  Penrod  returned  from  chasing  Duke 
to  the  next  corner,  Verman  had  the  long,  black  snake 
down  from  the  rafter  where  its  active  head  had  taken 
refuge,  with  the  rest  of  it  dangling;  and  both  boys  agreed 
that  Mrs.  Williams's  cat  must  certainly  be  able  to  "see 
some,  anyway",  through  the  meshes  of  the  stocking. 

"Well,"  said  Penrod,  "it's  gettin'  pretty  near  dark,  what 
with  all  this  bother  and  mess  we  been  havin'  around  here, 
and  I  expeck  as  soon  as  I  get  this  good  ole  broom-handle 
fixed  out  of  the  rake  for  you,  Verman,  it'll  be  about  time 
to  begin  what  we  had  to  go  and  take  all  this  trouble  for." 

....  Mr.  Schofield  had  brought  an  old  friend  home 
to  dinner  with  him:  "Dear  old  Joe  Gilling,"  he  called  this 

154 


friend  when  introducing  him  to  Mrs.  Schofield.  Mr.  Gilling, 
as  Mrs.  Schofield  was  already  informed  by  telephone,  had 
just  happened  to  turn  up  in  town  that  day,  and  had  called 
on  his  classmate  at  the  latter 's  office.  The  two  had  not  seen 
each  other  in  eighteen  years. 

Mr.  Gilling  was  a  tall  man,  clad  highly  in  the  mode, 
and  brought  to  a  polished  and  powdered  finish  by  barber 
and  manicurist;  but  his  colour  was  peculiar,  being  almost 
unhumanly  florid,  and,  as  Mrs.  Schofield  afterward  claimed 
to  have  noticed,  his  eyes  "wore  a  nervous,  apprehensive 
look",  his  hands  were  tremulous,  and  his  manner  was 
"queer  and  jerky" — at  least,  that  is  how  she  defined  it. 

She  was  not  surprised  to  hear  him  state  that  he  was 
travelling  for  his  health  and  not  upon  business.  He  had 
not  been  really  well  for  several  years,  he  said. 

At  that,  Mr.  Schofield  laughed  and  slapped  him  heartily 
on  the  back, 

"Oh,  mercy!"  Mr.  Gilling  cried,  leaping  in  his  chair. 
"What  is  the  matter?" 

"Nothing!"  Mr.  Schofield  laughed.  "I  just  slapped  you 
the  way  we  used  to  slap  each  other  on  the  campus.  What  I 
was  going  to  say  was  that  you  have  no  business  being  a 
bachelor.  With  all  your  money,  and  nothing  to  do  but  travel 
and  sit  around  hotels  and  clubs,  no  wonder  you've  grown 
bilious." 

"Oh,  no;  I'm  not  bilious,"  Mr.  Gilling  said  uncomfort- 
ably. "I'm  not  bilious  at  all." 

"You  ought  to  get  married,"  Mr.  Schofield  returned. 

"You  ought "  He  paused,  for  Mr.  Gilling  had  jumped 

again.  "What's  the  trouble,  Joe?" 

"Nothing.  I  thought  perhaps — perhaps  you  were  going 
to  slap  me  on  the  back  again." 

"Not  this  time,"  Mr.  Schofield  said,  renewing  his 
laughter.  "Well,  is  dinner  about  ready?"  he  asked,  turning 
to  his  wife.  "Where  are  Margaret  and  Penrod?" 

"Margaret's   just   come   in,"   Mrs.    Schofield   answered. 

155 


"She'll  be  down  in  a  minute,  and  Penrod's  around  some- 
where." 

"Penrod?"  Mr.  Gilling  repeated  curiously,  in  his  nervous, 
serious  way.  "What  is  Penrod?" 

And  at  this,  Mrs.  Schofield  joined  in  her  husband's 
laughter.  Mr.  Schofield  explained. 

"Penrod's  our  young  son,"  he  said.  "He's  not  much  for 
looks,  maybe;  but  he's  been  pretty  good  lately,  and  some- 
times we're  almost  inclined  to  be  proud  of  him.  You'll  see 
him  in  a  minute,  old  Joe!" 

Old  Joe  saw  him  even  sooner.  Instantly,  as  Mr.  Schofield 
finished  his  little  prediction,  the  most  shocking  uproar  ever 
heard  in  that  house  burst  forth  in  the  kitchen.  Distinctly 
Irish  shrieks  unlimited  came  from  that  quarter — together 
with  the  clashing  of  hurled  metal  and  tin,  the  appealing 
sound  of  breaking  china,  and  the  hysterical  barking  of  a 
dog. 

The  library  door  flew  open,  and  Mrs.  Cullen  appeared  as 
a  mingled  streak  crossing  the  room  from  one  door  to  the 
other.  She  was  followed  by  a  boy  with  a  coal-black  nose; 
and  between  his  feet,  as  he  entered,  there  appeared  a  big, 
long,  black,  horr'ble  snake,  with  frantic  legs  springing  from 
what  appeared  to  be  its  head;  and  it  further  fulfilled  Mrs. 
Cullen's  description  by  making  a  fizzin'  noise.  Accompany- 
ing the  snake,  and  still  faithfully  endeavouring  to  guide  it 
with  the  detached  handle  of  a  rake,  was  a  small  black  demon 
with  a  gassly  white  forehead  and  gasslier  white  hair.  Duke, 
evidently  still  feeling  his  bath,  was  doing  all  in  his  power 
to  aid  the  demon  in  making  the  snake  step  lively.  A  few 
kitchen  implements  followed  this  fugitive  procession  through 
the  library  doorway. 

The  long,  black  snake  became  involved  with  a  leg  of  the 
heavy  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  The  head  developed 
spasms  of  agility;  there  were  cla wings  and  rippings;  then 
the  foremost  section  of  the  long,  black  snake  detached  itself, 
bounded  into  the  air,  and,  after  turning  a  number  of  somer- 
saults, became,  severally*  a  torn  stocking,  excelsior,  and  a 

156 


lunatic  cat.  The  ears  of  this  cat  were  laid  back  flat  upon  its 
head  and  its  speed  was  excessive  upon  a  fairly  circular 
track  it  laid  out  for  itself  in  the  library.  Flying  round 
this  orbit,  it  perceived  the  open  doorway;  passed  through 
it,  thence  to  the  kitchen,  and  outward  and  onward — Delia 
having  left  the  kitchen  door  open  in  her  haste  as  she  retired 
to  the  backyard. 

The  black  demon  with  the  gassly  white  forehead  and  hair, 
finding  himself  in  the  presence  of  grown  people  who  were 
white  all  over,  turned  in  his  tracks  and  followed  Mrs. 
Williams's  cat  to  the  great  outdoors.  Duke  preceded  Ver- 
man.  Mrs.  Cullen  vanished.  Of  the  apparition,  only  wreck- 
age and  a  rightfully  apprehensive  Penrod  were  left. 

"But  where — "  Mrs.  Schofield  began,  a  few  minutes  later, 
looking  suddenly  mystified — "where — where " 

"Where  what?"  Mr.  Schofield  asked  testily.  "What  are 
you  talking  about?"  His  nerves  were  jarred,  and  he  was 
rather  hoarse  after  what  he  had  been  saying  to  Penrod. 
(That  regretful  necromancer  was  now  upstairs  doing  un- 
helpful things  to  his  nose  over  a  washstand.)  "What  do  you 
mean  by,  'Where,  where,  where?'  "  Mr.  Schofield  demanded. 
"I  don't  see  any  sense  to  it." 

"But  where  is  your  old  classmate?"  she  cried.  "Where's 
Mr.  Gilling?" 

She  was  the  first  to  notice  this  striking  absence. 

"By  George!"  Mr.  Schofield  exclaimed.  "Where  is  old 
Joe?" 

Margaret  intervened.  "You  mean  that  tall,  pale  man  who 
was  calling?"  she  asked. 

"Pale,  no!"  said  her  father.  "He's  as  flushed  as " 

"He  was  pale  when  /  saw  him,"  Margaret  said.  "He 
had  his  hat  and  coat,  and  he  was  trying  to  get  out  of  the 
front  door  when  I  came  running  downstairs.  He  couldn't 
work  the  c&tch  for  a  minute ;  but  before  I  got  to  the  foot 
of  the  steps  he  managed  to  turn  it  and  open  the  door.  He 
went  out  before  I  could  think  what  to  say  to  him,  he  was  ui 

157 


such  a  hurry.  I  guess  everything  was  so  confused  you  didn't 
notice — but  he's  certainly  gone." 

Mrs.  Schofield  turned  to  her  husband. 

"But  I  thought  he  was  going  to  stay  to  dinner!"  she 
cried. 

Mr.  Schofield  shook  his  head,  admitting  himself  floored. 
Later,  having  mentally  gone  over  everything  that  might 
shed  light  on  the  curious  behaviour  of  old  Joe,  he  said,  with- 
out preface:  "He  wasn't  at  all  dissipated  when  we  were  in 
college." 

Mrs.  Schofield  nodded  severely.  "Maybe  this  was  just  the 
best  thing  could  have  happened  to  him,  after  all,"  she  said. 

"It  may  be,"  her  husband  returned.  "I  don't  say  it  isn't. 
But  that  isn't  going  to  make  any  difference  in  what  I'm 
going  to  do  to  Penrod!" 


158 


THE    PARTY 


Miss  Amy  Rennsdale 

At  Home 
Saturday,  the  twenty-third 

from  three  to  six 
R.  s.  v.  p.  Dancing 


THIS  little  card,  delicately  engraved,  betokened  the 
hospitality   incidental  to  the  ninth  birthday  anni- 
versary of  Baby  Rennsdale,  youngest  member  of  the 
Friday  Afternoon  Dancing  Class,  and,  by  the  same  token, 
it  represented  the  total  social  activity  (during  that  season) 


159 


of  a  certain  limited  bachelor  set  consisting  of  Messrs.  Pen- 
rod  Schofield  and  Samuel  Williams.  The  truth  must  be 
faced :  Penrod  and  Sam  were  seldom  invited  to  small  parties ; 
they  were  considered  too  imaginative.  But  in  the  case  of  so 
large  an  affair  as  Miss  Rennsdale's,  the  feeling  that  their 
parents  would  be  sensitive  outweighed  fears  of  what  Penrod 
and  Sam  might  do  at  the  party.  Reputation  is  indeed  a 
bubble,  but  sometimes  it  is  blown  of  sticky  stuff. 

The  comrades  set  out  for  the  fete  in  company,  final 
maternal  outpourings  upon  deportment  and  the  duty  of 
dancing  with  the  hostess  evaporating  in  their  freshly  cleaned 
ears.  Both  boys,  however,  were  in  a  state  of  mind,  body,  and 
decoration  appropriate  to  the  gala  scene  they  were  ap- 
proaching. Their  collars  were  wide  and  white;  inside  the 
pockets  of  their  overcoats  were  glistening  dancing-pumps, 
wrapped  in  tissue-paper;  inside  their  jacket  pockets  were 
pleasant-smelling  new  white  gloves,  and  inside  their  heads 
solemn  timidity  commingled  with  glittering  anticipations. 
Before  them,  like  a  Christmas  tree  glimpsed  through  lace 
curtains,  they  beheld  joy  shimmering — music,  ice-cream, 
macaroons,  tinsel  caps,  and  the  starched  ladies  of  their 
hearts.  Penrod  and  Sam  walked  demurely  yet  almost 
boundingly;  their  faces  were  shining  but  grave — they  were 
on  their  way  to  the  Party! 

"Look  at  there !"  said  Penrod.  "There's  Carlie  Chitten !" 

"Where?"  Sam  asked. 

"  'Cross  the  street.  Haven't  you  got  any  eyes  ?" 

"Well,  whyn't  you  say  he  was  'cross  the  street  in  the 
first  place?"  Sam  returned  plaintively.  "Besides,  he's  so 
little  you  can't  hardly  see  him."  This  was,  of  course,  a 
violent  exaggeration,  though  Master  Chitten,  not  yet  eleven 
years  old,  was  an  inch  or  two  short  for  his  age.  "He's  all 
dressed  up,"  Sam  added.  "I  guess  he  must  be  invited." 

"I  bet  he  does  sumpthing,"  said  Penrod. 

"I  bet  he  does,  too,"  Sam  agreed. 

This  was  the  extent  of  their  comment  upon  the  small 
person  across  the  street;  but,  in  spite  of  its  non-committal 

160 


character,  the  manner  of  both  commentators  seemed  to 
indicate  that  they  had  just  exchanged  views  upon  an  inter- 
esting and  even  curious  subject.  They  walked  along  in 
silence  for  several  minutes,  staring  speculatively  at  Master 
Chitten. 

His  appearance  was  pleasant  and  not  remarkable.  He 
was  a  handsome,  dark  little  boy,  with  quick  eyes  and  a 
precociously  reserved  expression;  his  air  was  "well-bred"; 
he  was  exquisitely  neat,  and  he  had  a  look  of  manly  com- 
petence that  grown  people  found  attractive  and  reassuring. 
In  short,  he  was  a  boy  of  whom  a  timid  adult  stranger  would 
have  inquired  the  way  with  confidence.  And  yet  Sam  and 
Penrod  had  mysterious  thoughts  about  him — obviously 
there  was  something  subterranean  here. 

They  continued  to  look  at  him  for  the  greater  part  of  a 
block,  when,  their  progress  bringing  them  in  sight  of  Miss 
Amy  Rennsdale's  place  of  residence  their  attention  was 
directed  to  a  group  of  men  bearing  festal  burdens — encased 
violins,  a  shrouded  harp  and  other  beckoning  shapes.  There 
were  signs,  too,  that  most  of  "those  invited"  intended  to 
miss  no  moment  of  this  party;  guests  already  indoors 
watched  from  the  windows  the  approach  of  the  musicians. 
Washed  boys  in  black  and  white,  and  girls  in  tender  colours 
converged  from  various  directions,  making  gayly  for  the 
thrilling  gateway — and  the  most  beautiful  little  girl  in  all 
the  world,  Marjorie  Jones,  of  the  amber  curls,  jumped 
from  a  carriage  step  to  the  curbstone  as  Penrod  and  Sam 
came  up.  She  waved  to  them. 

Sam  responded  heartily ;  but  Penrod,  feeling  real  emotion 
and  seeking  to  conceal  it,  muttered,  " 'Lo,  Marjorie!" 
gruffly,  offering  no  further  demonstration.  Marjorie  paused 
a  moment,  expectant,  and  then,  as  he  did  not  seize  the 
opportunity  to  ask  her  for  the  first  dance,  she  tried  not  to 
look  disappointed  and  ran  into  the  house  ahead  of  the  two 
boys.  Penrod  was  scarlet;  he  wished  to  dance  the  first  dance 
with  Marjorie,  and  the  second  and  the  third  and  all  the 
other  dances,  and  he  strongly  desired  to  sit  with  her  "at 

161 


refreshments";  but  he  had  been  unable  to  ask  for  a  single 
one  of  these  privileges.  It  would  have  been  impossible  for 
him  to  state  why  he  was  thus  dumb,  although  the  reason 
was  simple  and  wholly  complimentary  to  Marjorie:  she  had 
looked  so  overpoweringly  pretty  that  she  had  produced  in 
the  bosom  of  her  admirer  a  severe  case  of  stage  fright.  That 
was  "all  the  matter  with  him" ;  but  it  was  the  beginning  of 
his  troubles,  and  he  did  not  recover  until  he  and  Sam  reached 
the  "gentlemen's  dressing-room",  whither  they  were  directed 
by  a  polite  coloured  man. 

Here  they  found  a  cloud  of  acquaintances  getting  into 
pumps  and  gloves,  and,  in  a  few  extreme  cases,  readjusting 
hair  before  a  mirror.  Some  even  went  so  far — after  remov- 
ing their  shoes  and  putting  on  their  pumps — as  to  wash 
traces  of  blacking  from  their  hands  in  the  adjacent  bath- 
room before  assuming  their  gloves.  Penrod,  being  in  a 
strange  mood,  was  one  of  these,  sharing  the  basin  with  little 
Maurice  Levy. 

"Carlie  Chitten's  here,"  said  Maurice,  as  they  soaped 
their  hands. 

"I  guess  I  know  it,"  Penrod  returned.  "I  bet  he  does 
sumpthing,  too." 

Maurice  shook  his  head  ominously.  "Well,  I'm  gettin' 
tired  of  it.  I  know  he  was  the  one  stuck  that  cold  fried  egg 
in  P'fesser  Bartet's  overcoat  pocket  at  dancin'-school,  and 
ole  p'fesser  went  and  blamed  it  on  me.  Then,  Carlie,  he  c'm 
up  to  me,  th'  other  day,  and  he  says,  'Smell  my  buttonhole 
bokay.'  He  had  some  vi'lets  stickin'  in  his  buttonhole,  and  I 
went  to  smell  'em  and  water  squirted  on  me  out  of  Jem.  I 
guess  I've  stood  about  enough,  and  if  he  does  another  thing 
I  don't  like,  he  better  look  out !" 

Penrod  showed  some  interest,  inquiring  for  detfils, 
whereupon  Maurice  explained  that  if  Master  Chitten  dis- 
pleased him  further,  Master  Chitten  would  receive  a  blow 
upon  one  of  his  features.  Maurice  was  simple  and  homely 
about  it,  seeking  rhetorical  vigour  rather  than  elegance;  in 

162 


fact,  what  he  definitely  promised  Master  Chitten  was  "a 
bang  on  the  snoot." 

"Well,"  said  Penrod,  "he  never  bothered  me  any.  I  expect 
he  knows  too  much  for  that!" 

A  cry  of  pain  was  heard  from  the  dressing-room  at  this 
juncture,  and,  glancing  through  the  doorway,  Maurice  and 
Penrod  beheld  Sam  Wilh'ams  in  the  act  of  sucking  his  right 
thumb  with  vehemence,  the  while  his  brow  was  contorted 
and  his  eyes  watered.  He  came  into  the  bathroom  and  held 
his  thumb  under  a  faucet. 

"That  darn  little  Carlie  Chitten!"  he  complained.  "He 
ast  me  to  hold  a  little  tin  box  he  showed  me.  He  told  me 
to  hold  it  between  my  thumb  and  fingers  and  he'd  show  me 
sumpthing.  Then  he  pushed  the  lid,  and  a  big  needle  came 
out  of  a  hole  and  stuck  me  half  through  my  thumb.  That's 
a  nice  way  to  act,  isn't  it?" 

Carlie  Chitten's  dark  head  showed  itself  cautiously  beyond 
the  casing  of  the  door. 

"How's  your  thumb,  Sam?"  he  asked. 

"You  wait!"  Sam  shouted,  turning  furiously;  but  the 
small  prestidigitator  was  gone.  With  a  smothered  laugh, 
Carlie  dashed  through  the  groups  of  boys  in  the  dressing- 
room  and  made  his  way  downstairs,  his  manner  reverting 
to  its  usual  polite  gravity  before  he  entered  the  drawing- 
room,  where  his  hostess  waited.  Music  sounding  at  about 
this  time,  he  was  followed  by  the  other  boys,  who  came 
trooping  down,  leaving  the  dressing-room  empty. 

Penrod,  among  the  tail-enders  of  the  procession,  made 
his  dancing-school  bow  to  Miss  Rennsdale  and  her  grown-up 
supporters  (two  maiden  aunts  and  a  governess)  then  he 
looked  about  for  Marjorie,  discovering  her  but  too  easily. 
Her  amber  curls  were  swaying  gently  in  time  to  the  music; 
she  looked  never  more  beautiful,  and  her  partner  was 
Master  Chitten! 

A  pang  of  great  penetrative  power  and  equal  unexpect- 
edness found  the  most  vulnerable  spot  beneath  the  simple 
black  of  Penrod  Schofield's  jacket.  Straightway  he  turned 

163 


his  back  upon  the  crash-covered  floors  where  the  dancers 
were,  and  moved  gloomily  toward  the  hall.  But  one  of  the 
maiden  aunts  Rennsdale  waylaid  him. 

"It's  Penrod  Schofield,  isn't  it?"  she  asked.  "Or  Sammy 
Williams?  I'm  not  sure  which.  Is  it  Penrod?" 

"Ma'am?"  he  said.  "Yes'm." 

"Well,  Penrod,  I  can  find  a  partner  for  you.  There  are 
several  dear  little  girls  over  here,  if  you'll  come  with  me." 

"Well "  He  paused,  shifted  from  one  foot  to  the 

other,  and  looked  enigmatic.  "I  better  not,"  he  said.  He 
meant  no  offence;  his  trouble  was  only  that  he  had  not  yet 
learned  how  to  do  as  he  pleased  at  a  party  and,  at  the 
same  time,  to  seem  polite  about  it.  "I  guess  I  don't  want 
to,"  he  added. 

"Very  well!"  And  Miss  Rennsdale  instantly  left  him  to 
his  own  devices. 

He  went  to  lurk  in  the  wide  doorway  between  the  hall 
and  the  drawing-room — under  such  conditions  the  universal 
refuge  of  his  sex  at  all  ages.  There  he  found  several  boys 
of  notorious  shyness,  and  stood  with  them  in  a  mutually 
protective  group.  Now  and  then  one  of  them  would  lean 
upon  another  until  repelled  by  action  and  a  husky  "What's 
matter  'th  you?  Get  off  o'  me!"  They  all  twisted  their 
slender  necks  uneasily  against  the  inner  bands  of  their 
collars,  at  intervals,  and  sometimes  exchanged  facetious 
blows  under  cover.  In  the  distance  Penrod  caught  glimpses 
of  amber  curls  flashing  to  and  fro,  and  he  knew  himself 
to  be  among  the  derelicts. 

He  remained  in  this  questionable  sanctuary  during  the 
next  dance;  but,  edging  along  the  wall  to  lean  more  com- 
fortably in  a  corner,  as  the  music  of  the  third  sounded,  he 
overheard  part  of  a  conversation  that  somewhat  concerned 
him.  The  participants  were  the  governess  of  his  hostess, 
Miss  Lowe,  and  that  one  of  the  aunts  Rennsdale  who  had 
offered  to  provide  him  with  a  partner.  These  two  ladies  were 
standing  just  in  front  of  him,  unconscious  of  his  nearness. 

"I   never,"   Miss   Rennsdale   said,   "never   saw   a   more 

164 


fascinating  little  boy  than  that  Carlie  Chitten.  There'll  be 
some  heartaches  when  he  grows  up;  I  can't  keep  my  eyes 
off  him." 

"Yes;  he's  a  charming  boy,"  Miss  Lowe  said.  "His 
manners  are  remarkable." 

"He's  a  little  man  of  the  world,"  the  enthusiastic  Miss 
Rennsdale  went  on,  "very  different  from  such  boys  as  Pen- 
rod  Schofield!" 

"Oh,  Penrod!"  Miss  Lowe  exclaimed.  "Good  gracious!'5 

"I  don't  see  why  he  came.  He  declines  to  dance — rudely, 
too!" 

"I  don't  think  the  little  girls  will  mind  that  so  much!" 
Miss  Lowe  said.  "If  you'd  come  to  the  dancing  class  some 
Friday  with  Amy  and  me,  you'd  understand  why." 

They  moved  away.  Penrod  heard  his  name  again  men- 
tioned between  them  as  they  went,  and,  though  he  did  not 
catch  the  accompanying  remark,  he  was  inclined  to  think  it 
unfavourable.  He  remained  where  he  was,  brooding  mor- 
bidly. 

He  understood  that  the  government  was  against  him,  nor 
was  his  judgment  at  fault  in  this  conclusion.  He  was 
affected,  also,  by  the  conduct  of  Marjorie,  who  was  now 
dancing  gayly  with  Maurice  Levy,  a  former  rival  of  Pen- 
rod's.  The  fact  that  Penrod  had  not  gone  near  her  did 
not  make  her  culpability  seem  the  less;  in  his  gloomy  heart 
he  resolved  not  to  ask  her  for  one  single  dance.  He  would 
not  go  near  her.  He  would  not  go  near  any  of  'em! 

His  eyes  began  to  burn,  and  he  swallowed  heavily ;  but  he 
was  never  one  to  succumb  piteously  to  such  emotion,  and 
it  did  not  even  enter  his  head  that  he  was  at  liberty  to  return 
to  his  own  home.  Neither  he  nor  any  of  his  friends  had  ever 
left  a. party  until  it  was  officially  concluded.  What  his 
sufferings  demanded  of  him  now  for  their  alleviation  was  not 
departure  but  action! 

Underneath  the  surface,  nearly  all  children's  parties  con- 
tain a  group  of  outlaws  who  wait  only  for  a  leader  to  hoist 
the  black  flag.  The  group  consists  mainly  of  boys  too  shy 

165 


to  be  at  ease  with  the  girls,  but  who  wish  to  distinguish 
themselves  in  some  way;  and  there  are  others,  ordinarily 
well  behaved,  whom  the  mere  actuality  of  a  party  makes 
drunken.  The  effect  of  music,  too,  upon  children  is  incal- 
culable, especially  when  they  do  not  hear  it  often — and  both 
a  snare-drum  and  a  bass  drum  were  in  the  expensive 
orchestra  at  the  Rennsdale  party. 

Nevertheless,  the  outlawry  at  any  party  may  remain 
incipient  unless  a  chieftain  appears ;  but  in  Penrod's  corner 
were  now  gathering  into  one  anarchical  mood  all  the  neces- 
sary qualifications  for  leadership.  Out  of  that  bitter  corner 
there  stepped,  not  a  Penrod  Schofield  subdued  and  hoping 
to  win  the  lost  favour  of  the  Authorities,  but  a  hot-hearted 
rebel  determined  on  an  uprising. 

Smiling  a  reckless  and  challenging  smile,  he  returned  to 
the  cluster  of  boys  in  the  wide  doorway  and  began  to  push 
one  and  another  of  them  about.  They  responded  hopefully 
with  counter-pushes,  and  presently  there  was  a  tumultuous 
surging  and  eddying  in  that  quarter,  accompanied  by 
noises  that  began  to  compete  with  the  music.  Then  Penrod 
allowed  himself  to  be  shoved  out  among  the  circling  dancers, 
so  that  he  collided  with  Marjorie  and  Maurice  Levy,  almost 
oversetting  them. 

He  made  a  mock  bow  and  a  mock  apology,  being  inspired 
to  invent  a  jargon  phrase. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said,  at  the  same  time  making  vocal  his 
own  conception  of  a  taunting  laugh.  "Excuse  me,  but  I 
must  'a'  got  your  bumpus !" 

Marjorie  looked  grieved  and  turned  away  with  Maurice; 
but  the  boys  in  the  doorway  squealed  with  maniac  laughter. 

"Gotcher  bumpus !  Gotcher  bumpus !"  they  shrilled.  And 
they  began  to  push  others  of  their  number  against  the 
dancing  couples,  shouting,  "  'Scuse  me !  Gotcher  bumpus !" 

It  became  a  contagion  and  then  a  game.  As  the  dances 
went  on,  strings  of  boys,  led  by  Penrod,  pursued  one  an- 
other across  the  rooms,  howling,  "Gotcher  bumpus !"  at  the 
top  of  their  lungs.  They  dodged  and  ducked,  and  seized 

166 


upon  dancers  as  shields ;  they  caromed  from  one  couple  into 
another,  and  even  into  the  musicians  of  the  orchestra.  Boys 
who  were  dancing  abandoned  their  partners  and  joined  the 
marauders,  shrieking,  "Gotcher  bumpus!"  Potted  plants 
went  down ;  a  slender  gilt  chair  refused  to  support  the  hurled 
body  of  Master  Roderick  Magsworth  Bitts,  and  the  sound 
of  splintering  wood  mingled  with  other  sounds.  Dancing 
became  impossible;  Miss  Amy  Rennsdale  wept  in  the  midst 
of  the  riot,  and  everybody  knew  that  Penrod  Schofield  had 
"started  it". 

Under  instructions,  the  leader  of  the  orchestra,  clapping 
his  hands  for  attention,  stepped  to  the  centre  of  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  shouted, 

"A  moment  silence,  if  you  bleace!" 

Slowly  the  hubbub  ceased;  the  virtuous  and  the  wicked 
paused  alike  in  their  courses  to  listen.  Miss  Amy  Rennsdale 
was  borne  away  to  have  her  tearful  face  washed,  and  Mar- 
jorie  Jones  and  Carlie  Chitten  and  Georgie  Bassett  came 
forward  consciously,  escorted  by  Miss  Lowe.  The  musician 
waited  until  the  return  of  the  small  hostess;  then  he  an- 
nounced in  a  loud  voice: 

"A  fency  dence  called  'Les  Papillons',  denced  by  Miss 
Amy  Rennstul,  Miss  Chones,  Mister  Chorch  Passett,  ant 
Mister  Jitten.  Some  young  chentlemen  haf  mate  so  much 
noise  ant  confoosion  Miss  Lowe  wish  me  to  ask  bleace  no 
more  such  a  nonsense.  Fency  dence,  'Les  Papillons'." 

Thereupon,  after  formal  salutations,  Mr.  Chitten  took 
Marjorie's  hand,  Georgie  Bassett  took  Miss  Rennsdale's, 
and  they  proceeded  to  dance  "Les  Papillons"  in  a  manner 
that  made  up  in  conscientiousness  whatever  it  may  have 
lacked  in  abandon.  The  outlaw  leader  looked  on,  smiling  a 
smile  intended  to  represent  careless  contempt,  but  in  reality 
he  was  unpleasantly  surprised.  A  fancy  dance  by  Georgie 
Bassett  and  Baby  Rennsdale  was  customary  at  every  party 
attended  by  members  of  the  Friday  Afternoon  Dancing 
Class;  but  Marjorie  and  Carlie  Chitten  were  new  per- 
formers, and  Penrod  had  not  heard  that  they  had  learned 

167 


to  dance  "Les  Papillons"  together.  He  was  the  further 
embittered. 

Carlie  made  a  false  step,  recovering  himself  with  some 
difficulty,  whereupon  a  loud,  jeering  squawk  of  laughter 
was  heard  from  the  insurgent  cluster,  which  had  been  awed 
to  temporary  quiet  but  still  maintained  its  base  in  the  draw- 
ing-room doorway.  There  was  a  general  "Sh!"  followed  by 
a  shocked  whispering,  as  well  as  a  general  turning  of  eyes 
toward  Penrod.  But  it  was  not  Penrod  who  had  laughed, 
though  no  one  would  have  credited  him  with  an  alibi.  The 
laughter  came  from  two  throats  that  breathed  as  one  with 
such  perfect  simultaneousness  that  only  one  was  credited 
with  the  disturbance.  These  two  throats  belonged  respec- 
tively to  Samuel  Williams  and  Maurice  Levy,  who  were 
standing  in  a  strikingly  Rosencrantz-and-Guildenstern  at- 
titude. 

"He  got  me  with  his  ole  tin-box  needle,  too,"  Maurice 
muttered  to  Sam.  "He  was  goin*  to  do  it  to  Marjorie,  and  I 
told  her  to  look  out,  and  he  says,  'Here,  you  take  it !'  all  of 
a  sudden,  and  he  stuck  it  in  my  hand  so  quick  I  never 
thought.  And  then,  bim!  his  ole  needle  shot  out  and  perty 
near  went  through  my  thumb-bone  or  sumpthing.  He'll  be 
sorry  before  this  day's  over!" 

"Well,"  said  Sam  darkly,  "he's  goin5  to  be  sorry  he  stuck 
me,  anyway!"  Neither  Sam  nor  Maurice  had  even  the 
vaguest  plan  for  causing  the  desired  regret  in  the  breast 
of  Master  Chitten ;  but  both  derived  a  little  consolation  from 
these  prophecies.  And  they,  too,  had  aligned  themselves 
with  the  insurgents.  Their  motives  were  personal — Carlie 
Chitten  had  wronged  both  of  them,  and  Carlie  was  con- 
spicuously in  high  favour  with  the  Authorities.  Naturally 
Sam  and  Maurice  were  against  the  Authorities. 

"Les  Papillons"  came  to  a  conclusion.  Carlie  and  Georgie 
bowed;  Marjorie  Jones  and  Baby  Rennsdale  curtesied,  and 
there  was  loud  applause.  In  fact,  the  demonstration  became 
so  uproarious  that  some  measure  of  it  was  open  to  suspicion, 
especially  as  hisses  of  reptilian  venomousness  were  com- 

168 


mingled  with  it,  and  also  a  hoarse  but  vociferous  repetition 
of  the  dastard  words,  "Carlie  dances  rotten!"  Again  it  was 
the  work  of  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern ;  but  the  plot 
was  attributed  to  another. 

"Shame,  Penrod  Schofield!"  said  both  the  aunts  Renns- 
dale  publicly,  and  Penrod,  wholly  innocent,  became  scarlet 
with  indignant  mortification.  Carlie  Chitten  himself,  how- 
ever, marked  the  true  offenders.  A  slight  flush  tinted  his 
cheeks,  and  then,  in  his  quiet,  self-contained  way,  he  slipped 
through  the  crowd  of  girls  and  boys,  unnoticed,  into  the 
hall,  and  ran  noiselessly  up  the  stairs  and  into  the  "gentle- 
men's dressing-room",  now  inhabited  only  by  hats,  caps, 
overcoats,  and  the  temporarily  discarded  shoes  of  the 
dancers.  Most  of  the  shoes  stood  in  rows  against  the  wall, 
and  Carlie  examined  these  rows  attentively,  after  a  time 
discovering  a  pair  of  shoes  with  patent  leather  tips.  He 
knew  them;  they  belonged  to  Maurice  Levy,  and,  picking 
them  up,  he  went  to  a  corner  of  the  room  where  four  shoes 
had  been  left  together  under  a  chair.  Upon  the  chair  were 
overcoats  and  caps  that  he  was  able  to  identify  as  the 
property  of  Penrod  Schofield  and  Samuel  Williams ;  but,  as 
he  was  not  sure  which  pair  of  shoes  belonged  to  Penrod  and 
which  to  Sam,  he  added  both  pairs  to  Maurice's  and  carried 
them  into  the  bathroom.  Here  he  set  the  plug  in  the  tub, 
turned  the  faucets,  and,  after  looking  about  him  and  dis- 
covering large  supplies  of  all  sorts  in  a  wall  cabinet,  he 
tossed  six  cakes  of  green  soap  into  the  tub.  He  let  the  soap 
remain  in  the  water  to  soften  a  little,  and,  returning  to  the 
dressing  room,  whiled  away  the  time  in  mixing  and  mismat- 
ing  pairs  of  shoes  along  the  walls,  and  also  in  tying  the 
strings  of  the  mismated  shoes  together  in  hard  knots. 

Throughout  all  this,  his  expression  was  grave  and  intent ; 
his  bright  eyes  grew  brighter,  but  he  did  not  smile.  Carlie 
Chitten  was  a  singular  boy,  though  not  unique:  he  was  an 
"only  child",  lived  at  a  hotel,  and  found  life  there  favour- 
able to  the  development  of  certain  peculiarities  in  his  nature. 
He  played  a  lone  hand,  and  with  what  precocious  diplomacy 

169 


he  played  that  curious  hand  was  attested  by  the  fact  that 
Carlie  was  brilliantly  esteemed  by  parents  and  guardians  in 
general. 

It  must  be  said  for  Carlie  that,  in  one  way,  his  nature 
was  liberal.  For  instance,  having  come  upstairs  to  prepare 
a  vengeance  upon  Sam  and  Maurice  in  return  for  their 
slurs  upon  his  dancing,  he  did  not  confine  his  efforts  to  the 
belongings  of  those  two  alone.  He  provided  every  boy  in  the 
house  with  something  to  think  about  later,  when  shoes 
should  be  resumed;  and  he  was  far  from  stopping  at  that. 
Casting  about  him  for  some  material  that  he  desired,  he 
opened  a  door  of  the  dressing-room  and  found  himself  con- 
fronting the  apartment  of  Miss  Lowe.  Upon  a  desk  he  beheld 
the  bottle  of  mucilage  he  wanted,  and,  having  taken  posses- 
sion of  it,  he  allowed  his  eye  the  privilege  of  a  rapid  glance 
into  a  dressing  table  drawer,  accidentally  left  open. 

He  returned  to  the  dressing-room,  five  seconds  later, 
carrying  not  only  the  mucilage  but  a  "switch"  worn  by 
Miss  Lowe  when  her  hair  was  dressed  in  a  fashion  different 
from  that  which  she  had  favoured  for  the  party.  This 
"switch"  he  placed  in  the  pocket  of  a  juvenile  overcoat  un- 
known to  him,  and  then  he  took  the  mucilage  into  the  bath- 
room. There  he  rescued  from  the  water  the  six  cakes  of 
soap,  placed  one  in  each  of  the  six  shoes,  pounding  it  down 
securely  into  the  toe  of  the  shoe  with  the  handle  of  a  back 
brush.  After  that,  Carlie  poured  mucilage  into  all  six  shoes 
impartially  until  the  bottle  was  empty,  then  took  them 
back  to  their  former  positions  in  the  dressing-room.  Finally, 
with  careful  forethought,  he  placed  his  own  shoes  in  the 
pockets  of  his  overcoat,  and  left  the  overcoat  and  his  cap 
upon  a  chair  near  the  outer  door  of  the  room.  Then  he 
went  quietly  downstairs,  having  been  absent  from  the  fes- 
tivities a  little  less  than  twelve  minutes.  He  had  been  ener- 
getic— only  a  boy  could  have  accomplished  so  much  in  so 
short  a  time.  In  fact,  Carlie  had  been  so  busy  that  his 
forgetting  to  turn  off  the  faucets  in  the  bathroom  is  not 
at  all  surprising. 

170 


No  one  had  noticed  his  absence.  That  infectious  pastime, 
"Gotcher  bumpus",  had  broken  out  again,  and  the  general 
dancing,  which  had  been  resumed  upon  the  conclusion  of 
"Les  Papillons",  was  once  more  becoming  demoralized. 
Despairingly  the  aunts  Rennsdale  and  Miss  Lowe  brought 
forth  from  the  rear  of  the  house  a  couple  of  waiters  and 
commanded  them  to  arrest  the  ringleaders,  whereupon 
hilarious  terror  spread  among  the  outlaw  band.  Shouting 
tauntingly  at  their  pursuers,  they  fled — and  bellowing, 
trampling  flight  swept  through  every  quarter  of  the  house. 

Refreshments  quelled  this  outbreak  for  a  time.  The 
orchestra  played  a  march;  Carlie  Chitten  and  Georgie  Bas- 
sett,  with  Amy  Rennsdale  and  Marjorie,  formed  the  head 
of  a  procession,  while  all  the  boys  who  had  retained  their 
sense  of  decorum  immediately  sought  partners  and  fell  in 
behind.  The  outlaws,  succumbing  to  ice  cream  hunger,  fol- 
lowed suit,  one  after  the  other,  until  all  of  the  girls  were 
provided  with  escorts.  Then,  to  the  moral  strains  of  "The 
Stars  and  Stripes  Forever",  the  children  paraded  out  to 
the  dining-room.  Two  and  two  they  marched,  except  at  the 
extreme  tail  end  of  the  line,  where,  since  there  were  three 
more  boys  than  girls  at  the  party,  the  three  left-over  boys 
were  placed.  These  three  were  also  the  last  three  outlaws 
to  succumb  and  return  to  civilization  from  outlying  por- 
tions of  the  house  after  the  pursuit  by  waiters.  They  were 
Messieurs  Maurice  Levy,  Samuel  Williams,  and  Penrod 
Schofield. 

They  took  their  chairs  in  the  capacious  dining-room 
quietly  enough,  though  their  expressions  were  eloquent  of 
bravado,  and  they  jostled  one  another  and  their  neigh- 
bours intentionally,  even  in  the  act  of  sitting.  However,  it 
was  not  long  before  delectable  foods  engaged  their  whole 
attention  and  Miss  Amy  Rennsdale's  party  relapsed  into 
etiquette  for  the  following  twenty  minutes.  The  refection 
concluded  with  the  mild  explosion  of  paper  "crackers" 
that  erupted  bright-coloured,  fantastic  headgear,  and,  dur- 
ing the  snapping  of  the  "crackers",  Penrod  heard  the  voice 

171 


of  Marjorie  calling  from  somewhere  behind  him,  "Carlie 
and  Amy,  will  you  change  chairs  with  Georgie  Bassett  and 
me — just  for  fun?"  The  chairs  had  been  placed  in  rows, 
back  to  back,  and  Penrod  would  not  even  turn  his  head  to 
see  if  Master  Chitten  and  Miss  Rennsdale  accepted  Mar- 
jorie's  proposal,  though  they  were  directly  behind  him  and 
Sam ;  but  he  grew  red,  and  breathed  hard.  A  moment  later, 
the  liberty-cap  that  he  had  set  upon  his  head  was  softly 
removed,  and  a  little  crown  of  silver  paper  put  in  its  place. 

"Penrod?" 

The  whisper  was  close  to  his  ear,  and  a  gentle  breath 
cooled  the  back  of  his  neck. 


172 


THE    HEART    OF   MARJOEIE   JONES 

WELL,  what  you  want?"  Penrod  asked,  brusquely, 
Marjorie's  wonderful  eyes  were  dark  and  mys- 
terious, like  still  water  at  twilight. 
"What  makes  you  behave  so  awful?"  she  whispered. 
"I  don't  either!  I  guess  I  got  a  right  to  do  the  way  I 
want  to,  haven't  I?" 

"Well,   anyway,"  said  Marjorie,   "you   ought  to   quit 
bumping  into  people  so  it  hurts." 
"Poh!  It  wouldn't  hurt  a  fly!" 

"Yes,  it  did.  It  hurt  when  you  bumped  Maurice  and  me 
that  time." 

173 


"It  didn't  either.  Where' d  it  hurt  you?  Let's  see  if 
it " 

"Well,  I  can't  show  you,  but  it  did.  Penrod,  are  you  go- 
ing to  keep  on?" 

Penrod's  heart  had  melted  within  him;  but  his  reply  was 
pompous  and  cold.  "I  will  if  I  feel  like  it,  and  I  won't  if  I 
feel  like  it.  You  wait  and  see." 

But  Marjorie  jumped  up  and  ran  around  to  him  aban- 
doning her  escort.  All  the  children  were  leaving  their  chairs 
and  moving  toward  the  dancing-rooms ;  the  orchestra  was 
playing  dance-music  again. 

"Come  on,  Penrod!"  Marjorie  cried.  "Let's  go  dance  this 
together.  Come  on  !'f 

With  seeming  reluctance,  he  suffered  her  to  lead  him 
away.  "Well,  I'll  go  with  you ;  but  I  won't  dance,"  he  said. 
"I  wouldn't  dance  with  the  President  of  the  United  States !" 

"Why,  Penrod?" 

"Well — because — well,  I  won't  do  it !" 

"All  right.  I  don't  care.  I  guess  I've  danced  plenty,  any- 
how. Let's  go  in  here."  She  led  him  into  a  room  too  small 
for  dancing,  used  ordinarily  by  Miss  Amy  Rennsdale's  father 
as  his  study,  and  now  vacant.  For  a  while  there  was  silence ; 
but  finally  Marjorie  pointed  to  the  window  and  said  shyly: 

"Look,  Penrod,  it's  getting  dark.  The  party'll  be  over 
pretty  soon,  and  you've  never  danced  one  single  time!'' 

"Well,  I  guess  I  know  that,  don't  I?" 

He  was  unable  to  cast  aside  his  outward  truculence, 
though  it  was  but  a  relic.  However,  his  voice  was  gentler, 
and  Marjorie  seemed  satisfied.  From  the  other  rooms  came 
the  swinging  music,  shouts  of  "Gotcher  bumpus !"  sounds  of 
stumbling,  of  scrambling,  of  running,  of  muffled  concus- 
sions and  squeals  of  dismay.  Penrod's  followers  were  re- 
newing the  wild  work,  even  in  the  absence  of  their  chief. 

"Penrod  Schofield,  you  bad  boy,"  said  Marjorie,  "you 
started  every  bit  of  that !  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your- 
self." 

174 


"7  didn't  do  anything,"  he  said — and  he  believed  it. 
"Pick  on  me  for  everything!" 

"Well,  they  wouldn't  if  you  didn't  do  so  much,"  said 
Marjorie. 

"They  would,  too." 

"They  wouldn't,  either.  Who  would?" 

"That  Miss  Lowe,"  he  specified  bitterly.  "Yes,  and  Baby 
Rennsdale's  aunts.  If  the  house'd  burn  down,  I  bet  they'd 
say  Penrod  Schofield  did  it!  Anybody  does  anything  at  all, 
they  say,  'Penrod  Schofield,  shame  on  you!'  When  you  and 
Carlie  were  dan " 

"Penrod,  I  just  hate  that  little  Carlie  Chitten.  P'fesser 
Bartet  made  me  learn  that  dance  with  him;  but  I  just  hate 
him." 

Penrod  was  now  almost  completely  mollified ;  nevertheless, 
he  continued  to  set  forth  his  grievance.  "Well,  they  all 
turned  around  to  me  and  they  said,  'Why,  Penrod  Scho- 
field, shame  on  you!'  And  I  hadn't  done  a  single  thing!  I 
was  just  standin'  there.  They  got  to  blame  me,  though!" 

Marjorie  laughed  airily.  "Well,  if  you  aren't  the  fool- 
ishest " 

"They  would,  too,"  he  asserted,  with  renewed  bitterness. 
"If  the  house  was  to  fall  down,  you'd  see!  They'd  all 
say -" 

Marjorie  interrupted  him.  She  put  her  hand  on  the  top  of 
her  head,  looking  a  little  startled. 

"What's  that?"  she  said. 

"What's  what?" 

"Like  rain !"  Marjorie  cried.  "Like  it  was  raining  in  here! 
A  drop  fell  on  my " 

"Why,  it  couldn't "  he  began.  But  at  this  instant  a 

drop  fell  upon  his  head,  too,  and,  looking  up,  they  beheld 
a  great  oozing  splotch  upon  the  ceiling.  Drops  were  gath- 
ering upon  it  and  falling;  the  tinted  plaster  was  crack- 
ing, and  a  little  stream  began  to  patter  down  and  splash 
upon  the  floor.  Then  there  came  a  resounding  thump  up- 
stairs, just  above  them,  and  fragments  of  wet  plaster  fell. 

175 


"The  roof  must  be  leaking,"  said  Marjorie,  beginning 
to  be  alarmed. 

"Couldn't  be  the  roof,"  said  Penrod.  "Besides  there  ain't 
any  rain  outdoors." 

As  he  spoke,  a  second  slender  stream  of  water  began  to 
patter  upon  the  floor  of  the  hall  outside  the  door. 

"Good  gracious!"  Marjorie  cried,  while  the  ceiling  above 
them  shook  as  with  earthquake — or  as  with  boys  in  num- 
bers jumping,  and  a  great  uproar  burst  forth  overhead. 

"I  believe  the  house  is  falling  down,  Penrod!"  she  quav- 
ered. 

"Well,  they'll  blame  me  for  it!"  he  said.  "Anyways,  we 
better  get  out  o'  here.  I  guess  sumpthing  must  be  the  mat- 
ter." 

His  guess  was  accurate,  so  far  as  it  went.  The  dance- 
music  had  swung  into  "Home  Sweet  Home"  some  time 
before,  the  children  were  preparing  to  leave,  and  Master 
Chitten  had  been  the  first  boy  to  ascend  to  the  gentlemen's 
dressing-room  for  his  cap,  overcoat  and  shoes,  his  motive 
being  to  avoid  by  departure  any  difficulty  in  case  his  earlier 
activities  should  cause  him  to  be  suspected  by  the  other 
boys.  But  in  the  doorway  he  halted,  aghast. 

The  lights  had  not  been  turned  on ;  but  even  the  dim  win- 
dows showed  that  the  polished  floor  gave  back  reflections  no 
floor-polish  had  ever  equalled.  It  was  a  gently  steaming 
lake,  from  an  eighth  to  a  quarter  of  an  inch  deep.  And 
Carlie  realized  that  he  had  forgotten  to  turn  off  the  faucets 
in  the  bathroom. 

For  a  moment,  his  savoir  faire  deserted  him,  and  he  was 
filled  with  ordinary,  human-boy  panic.  Then,  at  a  sound 
of  voices  behind  him,  he  lost  his  head  and  rushed  into  the 
bathroom.  It  was  dark,  but  certain  sensations  and  the 
splashing  of  his  pumps  warned  him  that  the  water  was 
deeper  in  there.  The  next  instant  the  lights  were  switched 
on  in  both  bathroom  and  dressing-room,  and  Carlie  beheld 
Sam  Williams  in  the  doorway  of  the  former. 

"Oh,  look,  Maurice!"   Sam  shouted,  in   frantic   excite- 

176 


ment.  "Somebody's  let  the  tub  run  over,  and  it's  about  ten 
feet  deep!  Carlie  Chitten's  sloshin'  around  in  here.  Let's 
hold  the  door  on  him  and  keep  him  in !" 

Carlie  rushed  to  prevent  the  execution  of  this  project; 
but  he  slipped  and  went  swishing  full  length  along  the 
floor,  creating  a  little  surf  before  him  as  he  slid,  to  the 
demoniac  happiness  of  Sam  and  Maurice.  They  closed  the 
door,  however,  and,  as  other  boys  rushed,  shouting  and 
splashing,  into  the  flooded  dressing-room,  Carlie  began  to 
hammer  upon  the  panels.  Then  the  owners  of  shoes,  striv- 
ing to  rescue  them  from  the  increasing  waters,  made  dis- 
coveries. 

The  most  dangerous  time  to  give  a  large  children's  party 
is  when  there  has  not  been  one  for  a  long  period.  The 
Rennsdale  party  had  that  misfortune,  and  its  climax  was 
the  complete  and  convulsive  madness  of  the  gentlemen's 
dressing-room  during  those  final  moments  supposed  to  be 
given  to  quiet  preparations,  on  the  part  of  guests,  for  de- 
parture. 

In  the  upper  hall  and  upon  the  stairway,  panic-stricken 
little  girls  listened,  wild-eyed,  to  the  uproar  that  went  on, 
while  waiters  and  maid  servants  rushed  with  pails  and  towels 
into  what  was  essentially  the  worst  ward  in  Bedlam.  Boys 
who  had  behaved  properly  all  afternoon  now  gave  way 
and  joined  the  confraternity  of  lunatics.  The  floors  of  the 
house  shook  to  tramplings,  rushes,  wrestlings,  falls  and 
collisions.  The  walls  resounded  to  chorused  bellowings  and 
roars.  There  were  pipings  of  pain  and  pipings  of  joy; 
there  was  whistling  to  pierce  the  drums  of  ears ;  there  were 
hootings  and  howlings  and  bleatings  and  screechings,  while 
over  all  bleated  the  heathen  battle-cry  incessantly :  "Gotcher 
bumpus!  Gotcher  bumpus!"  For  the  boys  had  been  inspired 
by  the  unusual  water  to  transform  Penrod's  game  of 
"Gotcher  bumpus"  into  an  aquatic  sport,  and  to  induce  one 
another,  by  means  of  superior  force,  dexterity,  or  strata- 

177 


gems,  either  to  sit  or  to  lie  at  full  length  in  the  flood,  after 
the  example  of  Carlie  Chitten. 

One  of  the  aunts  Rennsdale  had  taken  what  charge  she 
could  of  the  deafened  and  distracted  maids  and  waiters  who 
were  working  to  stem  the  tide,  while  the  other  of  the  aunts 
Rennsdale  stood  with  her  niece  and  Miss  Lowe  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs,  trying  to  say  good-night  reassuringly  to  those 
of  the  terrified  little  girls  who  were  able  to  tear  themselves 
away.  This  latter  aunt  Rennsdale  marked  a  dripping  figure 
that  came  unobtrusively,  and  yet  in  a  self-contained  and 
gentlemanly  manner,  down  the  stairs. 

"Carlie  Chitten !"  she  cried.  "You  poor  dear  child,  you're 
soaking!  To  think  those  outrageous  little  fiends  wouldn't 
even  spare  you!"  As  she  spoke,  another  departing  male 
guest  came  from  behind  Carlie  and  placed  in  her  hand  a 
snakelike  article — a  thing  that  Miss  Lowe  seized  and  con- 
cealed with  one  sweeping  gesture. 

"It's  some  false  hair  somebody  must  of  put  in  my  overcoat 
pocket,"  said  Roderick  Magsworth  Bitts.  "Well,  g'-night. 
Thank  you  for  a  very  nice  time." 

"Good-night,  Miss  Rennsdale,"  said  Master  Chitten  de- 
murely. "Thank  you  for  a " 

But  Miss  Rennsdale  detained  him.  "Carlie,"  she  said 
earnestly,  "you're  a  dear  boy,  and  I  know  you'll  tell  me 
something.  It  was  all  Penrod  Schofield,  wasn't  it?" 

"You  mean  he  left  the " 

"I  mean,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone,  not  altogether  devoid 
of  ferocity.  "I  mean  it  was  Penrod  who  left  the  faucets  run- 
ning, and  Penrod  who  tied  the  boys'  shoes  together,  and 
filled  some  of  them  with  soap  and  mucilage,  and  put  Miss 
Lowe's  hair  in  Roddy  Bitts's  overcoat.  No;  look  me  in  the 
eye,  Carlie!  They  were  all  shouting  that  silly  thing  he 
started.  Didn't  he  do  it?" 

Carlie  cast  down  thoughtful  eyes.  "I  wouldn't  like  to 
tell,  Miss  Rennsdale,"  he  said.  "I  guess  I  better  be  going  or 
I'll  catch  cold.  Thank  you  for  a  very  nice  time." 

"There !"  said  Miss  Rennsdale  vehemently,  as  Carlie  went 

178 


on  his  way.  "What  did  I  tell  you?  Carlie  Chitten's  too 
manly  to  say  it,  but  I  just  know  it  was  that  terrible  Penrod 
Schofield." 

Behind  her,  a  low  voice,  unheard  by  all  except  the  per- 
son to  whom  it  spoke,  repeated  a  part  of  this  speech :  "What 
did  I  tell  you?" 

This  voice  belonged  to  one  Penrod  Schofield. 

Penrod  and  Marjorie  had  descended  by  another  stair- 
way, and  he  now  considered  it  wiser  to  pass  to  the  rear  of 
the  little  party  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  As  he  was  still  in 
his  pumps,  his  choked  shoes  occupying  his  overcoat  pockets, 
he  experienced  no  difficulty  in  reaching  the  front  door,  and 
getting  out  of  it  unobserved,  although  the  noise  upstairs  was 
greatly  abated.  Marjorie,  however,  made  her  curtseys  and 
farewells  in  a  creditable  manner. 

"There!"  Penrod  said  again,  when  she  rejoined  him  in 
the  darkness  outside.  "What  did  I  tell  you?  Didn't  I  say  I'd 
get  the  blame  of  it,  no  matter  if  the  house  went  and  fell 
down?  I  s'pose  they  think  I  put  mucilage  and  soap  in  my 
own  shoes." 

Marjorie  delayed  at  the  gate  until  some  eagerly  talking 
little  girls  had  passed  out.  The  name  "Penrod  Schofield" 
was  thick  and  scandalous  among  them. 

"Well,"  said  Marjorie,  "7  wouldn't  care,  Penrod.  'Course, 
about  soap  and  mucilage  in  your  shoes,  anybody'd  know 
some  other  boy  must  of  put  'em  there  to  get  even  for  what 
you  put  in  his." 

Penrod  gasped. 

"But  I  didn't!"  he  cried.  "I  didn't  do  anything!  That 
ole  Miss  Rennsdale  can  say  what  she  wants  to,  I  didn't  do 
a " 

"Well,  anyway,  Penrod,"  said  Marjorie,  softly,  "they 
can't  ever  prove  it  was  you." 

He  felt  himself  suffocating  in  a  coil  against  which  no 
struggle  availed. 

"But  I  never  did  it !"  he  wailed,  helplessly.  "I  never  did 
anything  at  all!" 

179 


She  leaned  toward  him  a  little,  and  the  lights  from  her 
waiting  carriage  illumined  her  dimly,  but  enough  for  him 
to  see  that  her  look  was  fond  and  proud,  yet  almost  awed. 

"Anyway,  Penrod,"  she  whispered,  "7  don't  believe  there's 
any  other  boy  in  the  whole  world  could  of  done  half  as 
much!" 


180 


PENROD 


